A Beautiful Heist

by Kim Foster

  I took one last admiring look at the riches within the safe, but I left everything else inside. I closed the safe door, extinguishing the sparkles. The ring was the only item on my shopping list for today.

  I had this little thing I called my “Thief’s Credo”:

  1. Never steal from anyone who would go hungry.

  2. Never steal anything that’s not insured.

  3. Never steal frivolously.

  For example, say I was shopping and I spotted a divine pair of Gucci sunglasses with a prohibitive price tag. Although I could have stolen them, I wouldn’t have. If I’d really wanted them, I would have bought them. This fell under the jurisdiction of guiding principle number three.

  Generally speaking, I tried to keep stealing limited to my job, not my daily life.

  I closed the safe with a soft clunk and gazed at the ring. My breath slowed and I bit my lower lip. Would it happen . . . now? If this jewel was, in fact, to be a talisman for me—the thing that released me from my guilt about Penny—would now be the moment I felt the change? I was balancing on a knife’s edge, waiting for some sort of shift, some kind of sign.

  But—I didn’t feel anything different. I stared hard at the diamond; it represented a job accomplished, sure, but I felt nothing more than that. I frowned, confused and disappointed.

  And then, I heard footsteps in the corridor. I froze. The footsteps grew louder.

  The room went into sharp focus. My muscles contracted and my skin prickled with a sudden adrenaline blast. I needed an escape. Now.

  I jammed the ring on my baby finger, over my glove. The door opened and I sprinted toward the bathroom. I leaped over the bed and heard someone enter the room behind me. The lights flicked on. I lunged for the bathroom door . . . I was almost there—

  I heard a sharp intake of breath, and then the question every burglar despises:

  “Hey! What the hell are you doing in here?”

  Chapter 2

  I dove into the bathroom, slammed the door and locked it. I spun; where was that damn window? The bathroom was enormous, all marble and glass mosaic tiles and polished nickel and gleaming halogen lights. Ah, there. The tiny square window was high above the toilet, beckoning me to freedom.

  I ripped off my dress, revealing the wet suit beneath. I crumpled the dress and zipped it inside my suit.

  In the next second I was clambering on the toilet tank up to the window.

  The bathroom door suddenly vibrated with pounding and hollering. My mouth was dry and there were thundering hoofbeats in my chest. My mind flickered with slide-show images of police, courts, prisons.

  I shoved the glass open and lunged through the space. Halfway out, my hips got stuck. No. It was supposed to be big enough—were the blueprint dimensions wrong? I wriggled and squished myself—damn, damn, damn those extra caramel macchiatos last week—and three precious seconds passed, an epic.

  I grabbed onto a bar outside on deck and gave one mighty pull. My body popped out like a cork and I landed on my knees. I was outside on the cold smooth deck, an unoccupied part of the yacht. I rose, scanning for the quickest way off.

  “Hey! You there!” a voice behind me shouted. Okay, just go, Cat.

  A gunshot cracked the air.

  And it was a good thing the liquor had been flowing freely on the boat. The gunman’s aim was way off; the bullet zinged a distant pole. Still, I was not feeling inclined to wait around to see if they could find a designated driver to operate the firearm.

  I sprinted toward the railing. Unfortunately my stiletto heel stuck in a drain grate. I crashed onto the deck. A shot zoomed just above me, roughly where my thighs would have been. The gunman was getting better.

  I yanked at my heel but it wouldn’t budge. I whipped off the strap and slipped my foot loose. The edge of the boat was two feet away. I could have crawled it in a fraction of a second, but—

  Shit—I didn’t want to leave my shoe. They were Louboutins for chrissake, the most perfect black patent sling-back pumps, and those babies cost me $725. Besides, I was no Cinderella. I did not need anyone searching me out with a handy little clue like an abandoned shoe.

  I turned, hesitating. The man carrying the gun, with two others behind him, was standing on the lido deck high above. The yacht reverberated with shouting, rapid footsteps, the sounds of panic and anger. We locked eyes. He took a step down the stairs that led to the lower deck, and slipped, ever so slightly. As he regained his footing his gaze flicked downward for a moment.

  That was all I needed. I lunged back to my shoe, wrenched it free, and in one fluid movement dove into the water. The cold took my breath away.

  Underwater, I reached back and ripped the other shoe off and clutched them both in my hand. I swam hard. I torpedoed on, underwater the whole way, thankful for the competitive swimming lessons my parents made me take as a kid.

  I surfaced briefly, halfway to the dock, silently gulping air and hoping my head would be unseen on the shifting dark mirror of the harbor. Angry shouts of alarm skidded across the water. I quickly submerged again, muffling the upper world. At last I reached the dock, swam under it, and got myself lost among moored boats. Although my lungs were shrieking, begging me to breathe something—anything—I kept going, avoiding searching flashlight beams.

  At last I came up for air and silently glanced around. I was surrounded by faintly rippled, moonlit water, and the hulls of boats resting like great whales nudged against the wharf. I heard water slapping lazily against the dark-wet wood of the docks, and distant shouts, somewhere over my left shoulder.

  Nobody was in sight. I breaststroked my way through the slumbering boats. Then I spotted the ship I was searching for, the Rumpelstiltskin. I slithered out of the water, up the spindly metal ladder, and onto the uninhabited Rumpelstiltskin.

  This was yet another handy aspect of working for an agency. They could do the legwork and learn which boats have out-of-town owners (i.e., the type who tend not to kick up a fuss should someone, say, stash a getaway kit on their boat). Belowdecks I stripped off my wet suit, dried quickly, and climbed into the pair of jeans and sweatshirt I had hidden earlier that evening. I stuffed my Louboutins into a backpack. I checked the remaining contents of the backpack: a cell phone, a wig, a thick bundle of emergency cash in a pink billfold, and a passport, for getaway purposes.

  I smiled; it was all there. An electric thrill ran through me. I felt fabulous—tingling and fully alive. I did it. This was my thing. Totally my thing. The one thing I could do in this world.

  I removed the yellow diamond ring from my pinky finger and peeled off my wet gloves. As I did it I caught a glimpse of my own ring—my sister’s ring—on my right hand. I stared at the cheap, fake pink stone, the yellow-toned band, and I twisted the ring to reveal a glimpse of my finger, paler and skinnier underneath. That flesh hadn’t seen sunlight in a long time. The ring felt like a part of me, like my blood vessels and nerves and skin had grown through and into it. Yet I would cut it out of me, give it away instantly if I could have my sister back.

  But that could never happen. And it was all my fault. My stomach twisted. My fault.

  I tucked the stolen ring into a padded envelope. I stuffed it into the backpack and then frowned. I’d been so sure, so hopeful that tonight’s job would be the one. And yet . . . the shadowy emptiness was still there.

  I shook my head as a jumpy sense of urgency crept up on me. I had to get going. I couldn’t sit here all evening. My escape was not complete just yet.

  To cover my wet hair I slipped on a wig: dishwater blond and utterly forgettable. I climbed from the boat and onto the dock. The marina was scattered with people: a dreamy twentysomething couple promenading hand in hand, sipping from Starbucks cups, a family of five wearily trailing balloons and strollers, wearing glowing necklaces and faces painted like tigers and superheroes. It was Labor Day weekend and people had wandered to the marina, overflow from the massive annual music and arts festival at Seattle Center. I forced myself to stroll sl
owly, casually. I could make out the drumbeats and cheers and instrument sounds of a concert several blocks away.

  Then I noticed marina security staff scanning the water with flashlights, speaking urgently into walkie-talkies. A small crowd clustered around, murmuring with curiosity. I ambled over.

  “Hi, what’s going on here?” I asked. Innocent and mildly curious was the tone I struck.

  “Theft on a boat out in the harbor,” said the man, keeping his gaze tethered on the water’s surface. Flashing lights swung into my peripheral vision, a siren sharply cut off. “See anyone climbing out of the water? Wearing a wet suit?”

  “Nope. Sorry,” I said, shrugging.

  Fireworks from the festival crackled the sky as I strolled away.

  I coiled my way home, a circuitous route—as usual—to ensure I wasn’t being followed. I stuck to busy streets of downtown Seattle, losing myself within crowds. Buses rumbled by. The night was illuminated by streetlights, headlights, and massive store logos: Old Navy, Banana Republic, Williams-Sonoma. Brown leaves were just beginning to gather in the gutters.

  I stopped at the Greyhound bus station to change my clothes in the public restroom. The station was a plain brown brick building, skirted with wet newspapers and coffee cups. The sidewalk outside was lumpy with the bedrooms of the homeless. I entered the deserted restroom, which smelled overpoweringly of urine and marijuana and harsh industrial cleaner. I locked myself in, removed my wig and, without the benefit of a mirror, quickly dried my hair using the hand dryer. After changing into skinny black pants, it was time to slip my Louboutins back on my feet. Of course they were still wet and cold, and felt about as comfortable as small talk with a new boyfriend’s mother, but when has that ever mattered when it comes to shoes?

  I re-emerged on the downtown streets. Crisp city air swirled around me and I had a bubbly, champagne-inside-my-chest feeling.

  I passed a homeless man just outside the bus stop; he was slumped on the grimy sidewalk. His unfocused gaze registered utter defeat. He had eyes that were already dead, waiting for the rest of him to follow. A dried leaf fragment adorned his tangled beard. Dirt was lodged not just under his fingernails, but all around the edges in a grimy frame, worked into the lines over his knuckles. He carried the yeasty-sweet-sour smell of someone who hadn’t washed in weeks—maybe longer. I paused, opened my bag, pulled out the pink billfold. I bent forward and placed the stack of cash directly in his open hand. He startled but I was already gone, striding down the street without looking back.

  Further on, I stopped at an intersection waiting for the light to change. I gazed across the street to the opposite side of the crosswalk and my eyes landed on a man. Actually it wasn’t fair to call this a man—this was a man-god, Adonis in mortal form, cheekbones you could open soup cans with, shoulders of a blacksmith. And wearing an Armani suit that would make Giorgio himself break out in opera.

  With a quiver in my gut I noticed he was checking me out. I was feeling pretty good about myself as the light changed and I stepped onto the street. Even though my hair was looking ragged, I’m sure, I was still able to attract a little attention. Not bad, Cat Montgomery.

  Feeling bold, I flashed the man-god a broad smile as we passed each other. He smiled back. I experienced a strong urge to giggle. I resisted, of course, and played it cool. When I reached the other side I turned and looked at my reflection in a shop window. In a horrid moment I realized why the man-god was looking at me and smiling.

  Wide black smudges of mascara—hopelessly smeared from my swim in the harbor—circled my eyes. I looked like I was auditioning for The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Perfect.

  Twenty minutes later I climbed the broad steps to St. James Cathedral. I entered the enormous doorway and, to my great relief (and moderate surprise), failed to burst into flames upon crossing the threshold.

  It was dark inside, hushed and reverent. Candlelight flickered beneath a soaring ceiling; a scattering of people occupied the pews, kneeling, praying, or sitting in quiet contemplation. I slid into an empty pew at the very back and glanced at the old man to my far left with his head bowed. And at the young woman near the front, staring forward. Good people, obviously, praying and looking for guidance.

  For a moment, I wondered what that would be like. To be someone who could whisper a confession and receive forgiveness. It sounded so easy. But for me, it had never been that simple.

  At any rate, I wasn’t there for that. I was there for a scheduled rendezvous with my handler from the Agency. And Templeton was late. Which was unusual for him, but there was no reason to worry just yet.

  I shifted on the glossy wooden pew. As I tried, fruitlessly, to find a comfortable position, there was just one thing I wanted to know: was there a specific reason they made church pews so damn hard and uncomfortable? I mean, stained glass here, gilded whatnot there—surely there wasn’t a lack of money in the budget. Comfortable seating—would it have killed them?

  My insides felt prickly, my hands fidgeted in my lap, then at my sides. Where was Templeton? Dependability was a crucial quality, particularly in the thieving world. Could something have gone wrong? No. Templeton was the best.

  I did another scan of the people in the church—all the good people. My gaze unfocused. Good people.

  I wasn’t always bad. And I didn’t set out specifically to become a thief. Some kids are born with natural musical talent, or they’re the fastest runners in their class. I, on the other hand, was born with the skills of a thief.

  It took me a while to recognize it. Growing up, I was always just okay at everything. Always vanilla. Garden variety. I did fine in school but not great. I was so-so at sports, ballet, music, but never really excelled at anything.

  Until I realized I had my own special knack.

  First, I was stealthy and quick. Growing up, I could enter and exit rooms before my parents had any idea I’d been there.

  And I had nimble fingers. Sure, I wasn’t the only one of my friends who shoplifted. Most kids try it out from time to time. The one big difference: I was the only one who never got caught.

  I rose abruptly from the church pew. I couldn’t stay sitting any longer. I wandered quietly, softly to the stained-glass windows in an alcove. The candle smoke, normally a pleasant smell, was starting to irritate my eyes, and the air in there felt increasingly stuffy—how did people handle it?

  I told myself to calm down. It was just nerves making me feel this way. Still, I wondered: at what point should I abandon our rendezvous? I patted my backpack and felt the faint crinkle of the padded envelope inside. I pressed my lips together. Should I dump the envelope somewhere? Just get the ring—the evidence—out of my possession? No. Not a good idea. Hang in there, Cat. He’ll be here.

  I needed a distraction so I gazed up at the stained-glass windows. I focused on the colors: emerald and indigo and amber. Rich, beautiful tones, painstakingly cut and fashioned into luminous works of art. My eyes panned to a portrait of the three wise men, carrying gifts. It made me wonder. How had I received the gifts I’d been born with?

  As a kid my parents enrolled me in gymnastics classes. Perhaps a mistake on their part, but how were they to know? Here I learned some rather nifty skills. Things that would come in handy later on, for situations requiring me to scale downspouts or balance on chandeliers. Standard stuff.

  As I got older I set challenges for myself. Like locks. One afternoon, home alone, I studied our back door lock by unscrewing it and taking it apart. After a couple of hours I had it figured out. I practiced picking the lock, over and over. After that, every chance I got, I tried other locks. And I became good at it.

  Then I turned my attention to pickpocketing. It’s an art, really, lifting things from people without them detecting it. I grew up here in Seattle, and the best place to practice was Pike Place Market: a part-underground jumble offish markets and curiosity shops down by the pier. The market is always teeming with people, especially tourists (read: distracted and oblivious), so there
were oodles of opportunities for an enterprising young crook like me.

  Flexing my newfound skills—and getting away with it—made me feel special. I would never be ordinary or garden variety again. I was different than other people. And that gave me a place in the world.

  I turned away from the stained-glass window in St. James, and pulled out my iPhone, anxious for a message from Templeton. Nothing. I circled the cathedral in an effort to soothe my nerves. I glanced at the time. Seven minutes late. I decided to wait three minutes more, and then I was out.

  My circuit brought me to the ceremonial bronze doors. I gazed at the carvings, the likenesses of Mary, the saints, a handful of apostles. I looked at the faces. They appeared solemn, remorseful, and strangely . . . guilty.

  Which is something I knew all about. As I’d honed my burglary skills when I was young, I felt increasingly guilty. This was not something good girls did. And I had always been a good girl. So one day I decided: that was it. No more. Things were getting out of control, and it scared me. I promised myself that I would never steal again. And, had things turned out differently, I’m sure I would have kept that promise.

  I walked away from the bronze doors and slid into a pew by the side. I glanced at my watch. One more minute.

  Then, there was a creak of wood as someone slid into the pew behind me.

  “Good evening, my dear,” said a low British voice. “Anything to confess?”

  Relief wrapped around me like a warm bath. “Jesus, Templeton. What took you so long?”

  “Had to ditch a tail. Sorry, darling.”

  “Sure you weren’t followed?”

  “Lost them thoroughly. Nothing to worry about.”

  Templeton was my handler. We usually arranged to rendezvous like this—strangers in a public place. It was the best way of maintaining the hush-hush of the Agency.

  “You sure, darling? No sins to confess?” asked Templeton, a playful lilt in his voice.