Voices sounded out from somewhere above them.
Angel felt a pang of fear. Trapped. “No,” she breathed.
“Bitches?” Macy put up her hands and slowly lowered them, as though she was closing something. Their old signal for calm, something she’d been doing since they were twelve. “Who gets the best of us?”
“Nobody, bitches,” White Jenny said.
Macy fixed on Angel fiercely.
Angel frowned. “Nobody, bitches.” Their old mantra.
“That’s right, girls.” Macy pulled out her tube of lucky lipstick, pink with silver flecks, and rolled it around her lips through the lip hole in her facemask.
Angel and White Jenny got out their lucky lipsticks, too.
Putting on lucky lipstick was a kind of group meditation, a signal to the world that they were in control no matter what it looked like. The careful application of lipstick in the face of the instinct to panic and run had always given their criminal minds the space in which to work.
Macy snapped the lipstick top on and rubbed her lips together. “Four hallways,” she finally said, stating the obvious. She pointed. “Mini HVAC. That’s the way to the mechanical.”
White Jenny pointed at another. “Wine cellar this way, probably with a delivery door in the middle of everything. One of these other two is likely designed for escape.”
“Agreed.” Macy pulled out her cellphone and flipped on the flashlight function. They searched the floor with their lights.
“Boot prints,” White Jenny whispered loudly.
“Go, go, go,” Macy said.
They ran down the tunnel, which stretched on and on, illuminated every few yards by a fluorescent bulb. This was good. The right choice.
They came to a metal ladder in the wall.
“Take it,” White Jenny panted. “Yes, yes, yes.”
Macy climbed up top, pushing up a cover. Cool air gusted in. “Supply road,” she whispered down. “East edge of the grounds.” She pulled herself up and disappeared. Angel went next, climbing the ladder and pulling herself up into the cool darkness. They were on the far lawn. Flashlights played around the grounds in the distance, nearer to the mansion. On the other side was the wall that ran all round the property.
Dogs barked.
White Jenny heaved herself up and over, and Angel replaced the cover. The three of them got up and ran like hell for the wall. White Jenny already had her rope out. She lassoed one of the spikes. Lassoing was a skill White Jenny had taught herself in juvie; it had seemed innocent enough to the counselors at the time.
Macy went first and cut the barbed wire at the top. Angel and White Jenny followed over and dropped. Soon they were sprinting through the darkness on the other side of the wall, past some other houses and through a service alley.
They reached a street that seemed almost regular, except for it being in a gated community. They wouldn’t be truly okay until they were out. They cut through lawns and went low past bushes and finally reached the community gate, which was a lot easier to get over than Borgola’s.
Finally they were out. They collapsed together behind some bushes in the dirt, and leaned against each other, panting.
“What if I left my DNA?” Angel asked.
“You’re so careful,” White Jenny said. “No way did you.”
“I’m out of practice,” Angel said.
“You did great,” Macy said.
“Even if…nobody’s cracking those juvie records,” White Jenny said.
“This is Walter Borgola,” Angel said. “He has resources.”
“You know how hard it is to crack into juvenile records?” White Jenny asked.
“Come on.” Macy stood, and they ran the few blocks to another side street. There, like a welcome friend, was the car they’d stashed.
They piled in and quietly shut the doors, White Jenny in the driver’s seat. “Phew!” she said.
“And now we head back in,” Macy said.
Angel groaned from the back seat and pulled her shoes and dress out of her pack. She pulled off her utility belt and fanny pack and started to change.
“We should all change back,” Macy said. “They’ll be looking at cars by now. But first…” she reached over and grabbed Angel’s fanny pack, pulled one of the velvet bags out, and carefully tipped its contents into her palm, dragging it backwards to let the diamonds spill out. A dozen smaller stones and five very large ones glittered like stars on the smooth skin of her palm.
Angel and White Jenny watched in silence.
Macy moved her hand slightly, letting them catch the light. “I wanna eat you up,” she whispered.
They were breathtaking. The color, the light, the shimmer. A few of the larger ones really were significant. So much ice. Macy pointed to the largest. “There are two others like this in there. Named ones. That’s what the Flesh Boys really wanted—the named rocks.”
“Why can’t we keep the rest?” White Jenny complained.
“I know,” Macy said. “Don’t worry, they’ll pay.”
“My turn,” White Jenny said.
Macy tipped them into White Jenny’s hand. Jenny swished them around with her fingertip, just as she always did. They all had different ways of enjoying the stones. When Angel used to hold the jewels, she’d lay her cheek on them to feel them from both sides. But the truth was, holding them never give her the charge she wanted. Jewels were so much better in concept. Still, she wanted to hold them badly, just to complete the ritual of the night.
Macy caught Angel’s eyes.
Angel shook her head. She shouldn’t. She’d done her duty. She was out of the life. She watched White Jenny swish them.
White Jenny looked up. “You don’t want to hold them, Angel?”
“I’m good,” Angel said.
“For old time’s sake?”
“I said I’m good.” Angel sat back in the darkness. “I wanna get my gun and have this be over.”
The rocks went back in the bag. Soon they were driving through the quiet community and back in through the gate and back to the party.
Earlier that night, Macy had proposed that Angel should meet Rhonda, their new safecracker, for lunch. She had this idea Angel would be interested to meet her, and she’d even put her number in Angel’s phone. Macy didn’t understand how painful meeting Rhonda would be for Angel. There was so much about her old life she missed, especially her friendship with Macy and White Jenny.
She just couldn’t hurt people anymore—that’s why she’d quit. The last straw some five years back had been seeing one of their robbery victims on the news, weeping about the heirloom sapphire set they’d taken and fenced. It had put a face on their victims, but in truth, Angel had felt guilty about it for a long time.
Beauty is skin deep, but ugly cuts clear to the bone, her father used to say to her. He’d say it when the mean, pretty girls teased her about being fat – lardo. But when she shamed the family by drinking and thieving and getting locked up with Macy and White Jenny, she’d taken it inside her, like the ugly was all through her. Even her name felt like mockery.
Angel.
And then there had been the allure of the jewels, the idea that their purity and beauty would change things somehow and splash over into her life. It never worked. But even now she wanted to hold the damn things.
She looked down. “My arm. It’s bleeding again.”
“That’ll look suspicious.” Macy pulled out a shawl and Angel put it over her shoulders. Then she messed up Angel’s hair. “Okay.”
None of them were happy about returning to the scene. But leaving the gun would draw attention. That damn brainiac security guard would remember making her check it and start wondering. Maybe the staff would start scanning tapes. It could lead them to figuring out three women pulled the job. Female jewel thieves were a lot easier to find than male jewel thieves, because there were so few of them. Borgola would have their descriptions and he’d search the kingdom to find them like a twisted kind of Cinderella ta
le. Except they’d die.
A guard stopped them and shone a light into the car.
“I forgot something,” Angel said.
White Jenny drunkenly pleaded with him to let Angel go back and get her gun. Cars were streaming out quickly.
There was a too-long silence where he flitted the light around. They were all aware of the packs under the front seat, full of jewels and hardware.
“Go,” the guy said. “Be snappy.”
They drove on in silence. Angel’s pulse raced. She could feel the tension in the car cranking—and not in the delicious way.
They needed to talk about something else. Angel straightened up. “So when that guy was looking at my cracking tool,” she said, “I told him I listen to music while I do the johns.”
“That’s funny.” White Jenny slowed to let a car pass the other way. “But I could see it.”
“I thought so. It’s weird, but not that weird.” Angel said. “He believed it.”
Angel followed Macy’s gaze to guys running across the dark lawn. “I don’t like this,” Macy said. Angel heard her shove a clip into her extra gun. They would leave hot if they had to. “I’m going in with you.”
“So anyway,” Angel said, “I told him I let the johns pick the songs. And then he asks me what songs they like to make me listen to while they do me.”
White Jenny snorted. “What did you say?”
This was good. Angel could feel the tension lightening. “I didn’t know what to say. In my mind, all I could think of was like, We are the Champions?“
White Jenny snickered. “We are the Champions?”
Macy said, “You didn’t tell him that.”
“No. I just said, not Dancing Queen by ABBA.”
They all burst out laughing. Nervous, crazy laughter.
Guys with guns were going around to cars.
Angel asked, “So what song? That’s my question. What would you guys have told him? What song would a john make his whore listen to while he does her?”
“You Can’t Touch This,” Macy said.
White Jenny snorted. “Who Let the Dogs Out?”
“I”m coming up...” Macy sang.
The obnoxious answers came in full force. They were all hysterical as the guesses went on.
“Wait!” White Jenny gasped. “I am Iron Man by Black Sabbath.”
Angel was laughing so hard she was crying. A gun tapped on the window.
White Jenny rolled it down, sniffling and smiling. “Yeah?”
A guard asked a few questions. They explained their mission. No, they hadn’t seen anything unusual.
“You girls get your piece and drive safe,” the guy said.
White Jenny looked at Angel once they were off again. “Angel, your mascara is like, weeping black.”
“Shit,” Angel said, making to wipe it.
Macy reached back and caught her wrist. “Stop. It’s perfect. You look so fucked up right now. Keep it.”
CHAPTER FOUR
A robbery attempt couldn’t have happened at a shittier time. Not a shittier time. Security would be tightened right when Cole needed free run of the mansion. And Borgola would feel paranoid when Cole needed him to feel comfortable.
The robbers wouldn’t have gotten anything, considering the bedroom safe was a Fenton Furst. No, all these Bozos had done was jeopardize his operation. And the lives of those kids.
A few guests were still leaving. The kitchen staffers were in a line to head out, waiting for the guards to frisk them. Cole pretended to care. To be alert. That’s when he caught sight of her.
Angel.
Her hair was all mussed and black mascara bled down her cheeks like she’d been crying. Adrenaline shot through him and he fought the urge to go to her, ask if she was okay, get the name of who she’d been with.
And destroy him.
Focus, he told himself. This was one woman. A lot of people were about to die, and this was just one woman who’d damn well known what she was getting into when she came to the party.
He looked away. He was tired, that’s all. His search for the secret safe was all-consuming now—he hadn’t slept for too many nights.
But he’d taken her piece. Maybe she wouldn’t have gotten worked over like that if he hadn’t taken her piece. He still didn’t know what had gotten into him, seeing her. He’d felt like an animal darting after something shiny, and he’d just gone for her, needing to engage with her, frisk her.
Fatigue. Desperation. That’s all.
He never went for the hookers. Not that he was some boy scout—there was nothing he loved more than a woman on her knees, begging to be fucked or whatever, but he only loved it if she loved it, he only enjoyed it if his dirty talk or clever fingers had brought her to that point—not money or drugs or threats. What kind of man wanted to be with a woman who didn’t desire him?
Stupid question. He’d spent that last nine months surrounded by men like that.
Angel was talking to the coat check girl now. The woman handed over her gun. Angel glanced at him briefly. He made her nervous. He took a step toward her even as he knew he should stay away.
“Forgot my pistol,” she said.
This made him sad. That gun was no pistol; it was a powerful little semi-automatic with mother of pearl inlay. She really didn’t belong in such a place. He smiled, wanting to show her he wasn’t a threat. “You know how to use that thing?”
“I’ve shot it,” she said.
“If you’re going to carry something like that, you should go to the range and practice at least every six months.”
She nodded, seeming wired and wrung out. Some of her dark hair was plastered to her forehead as though she’d been sweating. Sweating and crying. He felt his pulse speed.
Stop.
She turned and left. Couldn’t wait to get out of there. Well, could he blame her? The party girls—that’s what Borgola called them—had been paid well to come and party. An economic exchange.
Still, it made him crazy, her looking like that. A man using her roughly.
He watched her leave with her friend. At least the night would be over for them.
Mapes sidled up beside him. “Old man offed Sturnvaal.”
Cole swallowed.
Mapes stifled a grin. “With a candlestick in the library.”
Cole fake laughed. Mapes had an idiotic sense of humor, but it was important that his enemies felt smart and comfortable tonight.
So Borgola had killed Sturnvaal, the head of the security team, probably with a gun in his office. The burglary attempt had ruined his party. Wasn’t that Management 101? To kill your people when they made mistakes? Cole patted Mapes on his back. “Somebody’s going to get promoted.”
“Might be you,” Mapes said.
“Doubt it.” Cole hoped to hell it wouldn’t be him.
Borgola’s assistant came up. Borgola wanted to see both of them in his office.
“Both?” Mapes muttered under his breath as they headed down the lavish hall under chandeliers draped with pearls.
“Sure hope he’s not making us co-leaders,” Cole said. “Co-leaders doesn’t work.” He did not want a power struggle with Mapes.
Mapes gave him a dark look. In addition to the blood stains on his police record, Mapes had a pedigree of vicious killings under Borgola—hell, Mapes was one of Borgola’s most effective killers. He deserved to be the leader of the security team.
Borgola’s study was a book-lined room with a fireplace and stuffed chairs, something right out of an old fashioned novel, though Cole doubted any reading went on in the place. If you looked closely at the wrought iron chandelier, you could see cuffs from which people could be hung by their wrists or ankles.
Borgola wasn’t there. They were to wait.
The two of them walked around the bloodstain on the floor to stand in front of the man’s desk.
Mapes slid his glance to Cole. “Perps must have gotten something.”
“Who knows,” Cole said, though
he doubted they got anything. Cole had gone through the trouble of smuggling in an Association consultant to try and crack the safe. Pops like a fucking Geiger counter, the consultant had said. You want to open a Fenton Furst? You need to blow it.
And then some Bozos from the party had set off the bedroom safe alarm.
The temperature in the library dropped ten degrees the second Borgola walked in. The man was lithe and fit, with a sinewy neck and overly built up jaw from the incessant grinding of teeth. And he was slime incarnate.
Cole and Mapes waited impassively, standing strong. Borgola liked to imagine himself as some sort of commander, addressing the troops. He had been in the Marines as a youth, though he’d barely made it out of boot camp before he was court marshaled.
“Here’s the situation—we’ve been hit,” Borgola said. “We’ve got five bags of diamonds hanging out there, and at least two thieves who were at the party or let in by a party guest. That’s confidential, by the way.”
Cole could’ve fallen over. They’d actually gotten into the safe?
“Needless to say, I won’t be using Sturnvaal’s services after this.” He nodded at the bloodstain on the carpet, eying both of them, back and forth, wanting the message to sink in.
Cole was more interested in the fact that the thieves had breached a Fenton Furst.
“I have my men scouring the grounds,” Borgola said. “But the two of you have the most investigative abilities. An ex-cop and an ex-P.I. So you two are investigating. Whoever comes up with the culprits gets to be my new security head.”
Cole nodded. “We’ll look into this.” The Association had given him a whole fake P.I. background.
“We’ll do our best, sir,” Mapes said, smiling at Cole.
Borgola said, “I have Hensen and Smits dusting the area around the bedroom, but it doesn’t look like we’ll find much. You two will go out there, rip up all of fucking L.A. finding them, and you will kill them and dispose of the bodies. You will bring me their severed hands, and you will bring me the diamonds. And I need results very soon. I want you two to hit the streets, to chase down every pawn shop, everyone who deals in diamonds. I’m having all the crime scene info forwarded to you both. Fingerprints and so on. I want the diamonds, and I want the hands of whoever did this.”
Against the Dark Page 4