A Beautiful Heist

by Kim Foster

  I watched him pull the ropes. His normally fluid movements were jerky. His hands were stiff.

  “Dad, what’s wrong?”

  He finished tying a knot, then turned to look up at me. Hurt and disappointment darkened his face. A gaping hole opened in front of me. I stopped moving and held my breath, staring at him, waiting to hear what was so terribly wrong.

  “Cat, I know,” he said quietly.

  All the air left my lungs, collapsing my chest. I knew my dad and I knew what would make him look and sound like that. He’d found out about my secret.

  Chapter 13

  “You know . . . what, exactly?” I asked, my voice pale as I grasped at the tiny possibility that I was wrong. I studied his face: he looked tired, older, his gray eyes cold oceans of disappointment.

  “Please, Cat. Don’t insult me. I know about your so-called career.”

  My wisp of hope disappeared. I didn’t know what to say. He bent to his work again, shaking his head.

  “Dad—let me explain—”

  But he cut me off. “I really didn’t think we’d raised you to be like that. I feel like I hardly know you. I just can’t understand it.”

  A wave of nausea hit me. All these years I’d worked so hard to keep this secret from my dad. I’d never wanted to hurt him. He had never truly recovered from Penny’s death and the last thing I wanted was to be an agent of pain for him. It was bad enough that it was my fault Penny was taken from him.

  I wished I could rewind, wished I could walk back down the dock again and see my dad smiling at me. Everything would be normal, and we’d go out sailing.

  I had a crushing, twisting feeling that nothing would ever be the same between us.

  But there had to be a way I could fix it. My mother had always been my number one critic, but my dad had always been my number one fan. He had always been on my side. Maybe I could make him understand. “How did you find out?” I asked softly. I gripped onto a rough, taut rope from the sailboat. The fibers stuck into my palm like tiny thorns.

  “One of your friends, she called for you. I answered. She said she’d been trying to get you at home, and wondered if you were visiting for the weekend. She then asked me if you were off on assignment for Templeton. I asked her what she meant and she said something about your handler and the thief agency. I had no idea what she was talking about, but when I started questioning her she backed down and got off the phone quickly. But I’d already heard enough. After that I forced your mother to confirm the truth.”

  One of my friends? I didn’t understand. The only people who knew were Mel and Sophie and I couldn’t imagine either of them doing such a thing.

  “Who was it?” I asked.

  “Brooke somebody,” he said.

  I closed my eyes and fought the red rage that filled my vision. How dare she. I had an urge to find Brooke. Right. Now.

  But first, I had to fix things with my dad. I had to make him understand. “Dad, I can explain. You don’t understand—”

  “Cat, there’s nothing you can say.” He looked so sad. And that look was killing me. I had to make it better. Somehow.

  “Don’t you want to know how this all came about?” I asked desperately. “How it works? Anything?”

  “Not really. No.”

  “It’s not as bad as you think,” I said, grasping. “In fact—”

  “Listen, Cat,” he said, climbing onto the boat. “I think I’m just going to go out on my own tonight.” There was complete finality in his voice.

  I swallowed against the dry rock in my throat. “Oh. Okay.”

  He looked back at me with anguish on his face. “I have to say, Cat, I feel like I’ve lost two daughters now.”

  It wouldn’t be difficult to find her. She was practically a celebrity these days. No, finding her wouldn’t be the hard part. Keeping myself from throttling her would be.

  Sure enough, after a little detective work, I burst through the door to a shoe boutique in Belltown. Brooke was there, seated on a tufted leather Barcelona Chair, trying on Jimmy Choos with the help of a twig-sized salesgirl. The shop was thick with the smell of shoe leather and expensive perfume; rhinestone sandals glittered under halogen lights and the air pulsed with British pop.

  “Brooke, what the hell is your problem?” I demanded with rage. I was holding on to my self-control by a hair—a very dry and overbleached hair, at that, brittle and apt to break.

  “Cat, I already explained that to you,” Brooke said, completely unruffled. She stood and swiveled her foot toward the floor mirror to get a better view of the Choos. The salesgirl was not so serene. She glanced with alarm between the two of us. She was frozen in a half-crouching pose before Brooke’s feet, evidently debating whether to stay or go. Brooke said to her, “Darling, do you have something with a slightly higher heel? Just like this one . . .”

  An expression of relief lapped over the salesgirl’s face and she scampered off to the back room. My eyes traced her retreat, then flicked back to Brooke. “Telling my father? That is really low. And . . . incredibly fourth grade.”

  She shrugged. “Innocent mistake, Cat. Really. I thought he knew. So sorry.” Her tone carried no sincerity whatsoever. “It’s a problem, though, isn’t it? When people know your secrets? You never know who might find out next.”

  There was a distinct possibility I might kill her. I squeezed my fists and tried to remain calm. I stared out the window to regain my composure, focusing on the people walking by, the late evening shoppers and strollers—a young mother with uncombed hair pushing a baby carriage, three men in the classic suiting of corporate lawyerhood emerging from an après-work martini bar.

  And then I got to play my card. “Listen, Brooke. Do I need to remind you that I know your secrets, too? You do not want me as an enemy.”

  Brooke recrossed her legs. “Are you kidding, Cat? I don’t have any secrets anymore. Haven’t you read my book?”

  Memo to self: Find time to read that damn book.

  I stood there without knowing what to say. Just glaring. And flaring my nostrils, I’m pretty sure.

  The shoe salesgirl returned balancing a tower of shoe boxes. Brooke and I were squared off, firing imaginary poison darts at each other. The salesgirl froze. And then swiveled, retreating to the back room again.

  Beneath the anger and infuriation, I felt a cold hand clamped on my spinal cord. Brooke could end my career as a thief. For a moment I visualized the life I would be left with—after all, Brooke’s career as a thief was over, wasn’t it? How would I cope with it? Would it be so bad, really? A small voice inside me said: yes, it would. But wait—wasn’t that what I wanted eventually, anyway?

  I walked home from the shoe store, although there was a brisk, cold wind. I was hoping the air would cool off some of my anger toward Brooke. I realized, shortly, that this was a bad plan. My anger at Brooke had allowed me to—temporarily—forget the ache in my heart over seeing my dad so disappointed. But as I walked, the pain crept back in.

  I stopped and looked at the window display of a perfume shop. My hands went down to rest on the aluminum windowsill but I barely felt the coldness of it. I was staring at the display of cut-glass bottles but not particularly seeing them. Somebody bumped into me as the crowd bustled by. I was scarcely aware of it.

  There had to be something I could do to repair things. The idea of my father not forgiving me, not understanding—how could I live with that? I pressed my nails into the cold windowsill. I’d fix it. I had to make him understand.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead,” said a voice, pulling me from sleep.

  I cracked my eyes open to see Templeton standing in my bedroom.

  “Templeton, what the hell?” I groaned, rolling over and squeezing my eyes shut against the bright, very early morning sun.

  “Tsk. I knew you’d forget.”

  “Forget what?”

  “The security conference. Our flight is today, darling. Time to get up. Here. I brought coffee.”

  I sat up an
d blinked at him as he held a steaming Starbucks cup. The aroma of coffee infiltrated my nose and started touring through the house of my brain, switching on the lights and firing up the appliances. “Templeton. There is no way you told me it was today.”

  “No?” He paused, thinking. “Hmm, perhaps you’re right. My bad.” I rolled my eyes. “Anyway, off you go.” He pulled me from the warmth of my bed and pushed me toward the shower.

  “Did you say our flight?” I asked. “Are you coming, too?”

  “As it happens, I’ve got business in New York myself.”

  “Business?” I asked wryly. “Or . . . shopping?”

  “Cat, please, I’m a busy man—”

  “Saks Fifth Avenue holiday sneak peek sale?” I said.

  He shrugged. “Guilty.”

  The timing here sucked. I did have one or two other items on my list of things to do—planning a casino heist sprang to mind—but I couldn’t skip the conference. It was too important for my future career with AB&T. And how could I explain my refusal to Templeton? Besides, it was just two nights out of town, right? Then I’d be back.

  But in the shower, blanketed with steam and hot water, I started thinking. This was my opportunity to get Templeton to spill the beans about Nicole Johnson. He was clearly in a good mood and totally relaxed. He wasn’t shutting me out any longer.

  On the plane we settled into the luxurious leather seats of business class—courtesy of the Agency. Soothing chamber music piped in. Our flight attendant furnished us with cocktails and warm cashews. I clicked my seat belt and flipped through a magazine as the engines rumbled and we began to roll down the runway. As the plane lifted into the crystalline sky I turned to Templeton. “So what’s this conference about, exactly?” Step one, I thought: warm him up, get him relaxed and discussing a topic he’s happy about.

  “Well, it’s all about the latest developments in museum security. The newest technology, and the most cutting-edge thinking on how to stop, well, people like you,” Templeton said, grinning. “You are attending, my dear, because you happen to be the head of security for a small modern art museum just outside Seattle. You know, a minor, independent institution that nobody has heard of. Mostly because it doesn’t exist.” His eyes glimmered.

  Templeton’s smile was bright and his speech was quick. “I think you’re going to find it quite enlightening. Always a prudent idea to know everything your enemy knows. And, I must say, the Agency is thrilled that you’re going. You and I are making a rather good move here.”

  His excitement was contagious. But a barb of guilt tugged on a corner of my mind. My success clearly meant a lot to Templeton and here I was keeping secrets from him. Doing things that could potentially unravel all his work. I watched him carefully as he rummaged in his briefcase, head down, and I found myself wondering—would he be so loyal to me?

  “Here, this is the program,” said Templeton.

  I scanned the list of workshop titles.

  Beyond Fingerprints and Iris Scanners: What’s New in Biometric Security?

  Security Guards: Challenges and Best Practices

  Internal Theft Boot Camp: Detection and Prevention

  He was right. This was going to be fun. And highly educational. I glanced sidelong at Templeton, who was grinning like a schoolboy at the brochure. I chewed my lip and ignored the guilt. I returned my attention to the page.

  Advanced Intruder Detection: Photo-Electric Beams and More

  I raised an eyebrow—now that sounded interesting. “So who else is going to be attending this conference, Templeton?”

  “Mostly industry types. Museum representatives, security consultants, and the scientists and engineers working on the leading edge of security technology.”

  “So, the exact people looking to stop people like me.”

  “Precisely.”

  I nodded and chewed my lip.

  “It’s not something we throw novices into, petal. Your skills of blending in and staying inconspicuous will need to be at their sharpest. Obviously, you’re going to be entering the lion’s den.”

  I experienced a twinge of uncertainty. Was I up to this? It wasn’t going to be easy. On the other hand, it was undoubtedly going to be fun.

  At that moment the flight attendant draped a linen tablecloth over my tray and placed a platter of antipasto and a frosted glass of pinot grigio before me.

  Okay, now, I told myself. Get into it now. I decided to go for the direct approach.

  “Listen, Templeton,” I said, nibbling on an olive. “I need to talk to you about Nicole Johnson.”

  Templeton sighed. “Cat, I have been perfectly clear. Stay away from her. Do not get involved.”

  I frowned and shifted in my seat. “Well, that’s just the trouble. I’m trying my hardest to avoid her but she seems to want to be friends. And it’s freaking me out.”

  “Why?” he said sharply. “When did you last see her? Did you speak?”

  “She invited me to a golf tournament.” I winced, preemptively.

  “She what?” he hissed. “Catherine, this is not acceptable. When did this happen? Where did you see her?”

  “Um . . . it was a few days ago. And—” At this point I began scanning my brain. Could I tell him about the casino? Should I lie? What if he knew something about the Aurora Egg? He might be suspicious at the mention of the Starlight Casino. Fine—I’d have to lie. Okay, casino . . . money . . . “It was at the bank,” I pronounced.

  “The bank?”

  “Yes.” I reached for my wine and took a swig. This was not going the way I envisioned. “Anyway, that’s not important. What’s important is that she invited me to a golf tournament. Why would she do that?”

  “I have no idea. But you are absolutely not to attend.” Templeton plucked at his platter of prosciutto and cheeses.

  “I know. I have no intention of it.”

  He looked directly at me. “Was Jack with her?”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t seen Jack lately, have you?”

  Ugh. Another lie coming up. “No.” I had no choice; I couldn’t tell him about the masquerade ball.

  “Good,” he said. “We cannot have you becoming involved again.”

  “Okay, but, Templeton, you still haven’t answered my question. What do you know about Nicole?”

  He rubbed his temples and gazed out the window. “The team, from what I gather, is having more trouble than usual accessing her file. As it stands, her past is a bit of a mystery.”

  With a sip of his wine, he refused to say any more on the topic. Great, Cat. Smoothly handled.

  After we deplaned, a car maneuvered us through the wilderness of downtown Manhattan directly to the hotel and convention center. After a solid night’s sleep (P.S.: 600-thread-count Frette sheets are a miracle), I met Templeton in the lobby and we made our way to conference room B. I was dressed plainly in business-casual trousers and white blouse. Nothing memorable or flashy about my clothes or my hair. My job today was merely to blend in.

  A black and white poster board was set up outside the main conference room. It read:

  WELCOME TO THE 12TH ANNUAL CONFERENCE OF THE MUSEUM SECURITY ALLIANCE.

  “Okay, this is us,” Templeton said, leading the way.

  Were security professionals the only people who needed to know about the latest advances in security technology? Of course not. We had that need.

  And, really, let’s face it. These people existed because people like us existed. If there were no burglars, no bad guys, there would be no need for all this expertise in security. These people, to put it plainly, would be out of a job if it weren’t for us. Truth is, crooks kept this whole industry going.

  At that moment I received a message on my iPhone. It was from Gladys.

  Might have a good lead on York Security. Sit tight; will get back in touch as soon as possible. Stay close to your phone.

  “What’s that about?” Templeton asked, suddenly at my elbow. “You look concerned.”

>   My head snapped up and I instantly deleted the message with my thumb. “Hmm? Oh, just a stock tip. It’s fine. No big deal.”

  Templeton’s mouth twisted with disapproval. “Catherine, no. You are not to go chasing those tips again. Haven’t you learned from your last mistake?” I gave a helpless shrug.

  We strolled into the conference room; I scribbled onto a Hello, my name is . . . sticker with a Sharpie. I looked around. Hundreds of people were seated at round, linen-covered tables. A small crowd bunched around a buffet table at the side, helping themselves to coffee, tearing open little packets of sugar. I wondered how many other attendees were thieves and burglars, too, just like me.

  “All right,” Templeton said. “This is where I leave you to your own devices.” He surveyed the group of attendees. “Oh, wait,” he said, grinning enormously. “I’ll just introduce you to someone first,” he said. “Come with me.”

  I followed him as he deftly wove through the tables. He stopped at a table far to the left that was occupied by only one person. “Cat Montgomery, this is Ethan Jones.” He lowered his voice and said, “Ethan is also with AB&T. Our man in the art department.”

  The man stood up and my stomach jolted backward. Green eyes, fabulous jaw . . . a little short, perhaps, but otherwise gorgeous. If you liked the Brad Pitt look. Hello, Ethan Jones.

  I frowned slightly. Now, how did I know that name?

  Chapter 14

  “Hello, Cat Montgomery,” Ethan Jones said with a voice that sounded like a long sultry afternoon in bed. He wore a suit that must have been custom-sewn by a tailor with a man-crush on him, and was sporting a smile that could bring women, small countries, and heads of industry to their knees. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Yes . . . um, hi,” I said.

  Memo to self: At next available block of leisure time, generate list of charming and intelligent opening lines. Anything would be an improvement upon “um, hi,” for Christ’s sake, Cat.