“Guess what happened to me last night?” I ask. “You’ll never get it right, but I want you to try anyway.”
“You were abducted by aliens, and now you have to relive the same day over and over again for the rest of your life.” Even though Riker is sitting on one of the aforementioned black couches, he shrugs out of his leather jacket and tosses it on the coffee table, almost as if he’s just arrived home. “In fact, this is the fiftieth time we’ve had this conversation.”
“Close. Try again.”
“Um… You’ve decided to go to college to become a marine biologist.”
“What? That’s less realistic than the alien one. I don’t even have a high school diploma.” I flop onto the seat next to him, the cushion deflating underneath me with a squeak. Shiny black furniture is rarely as comfortable as it looks. “Think more along the lines of my actual skill set.”
“You’re tired of playing investigator and have decided to leave the poor Peep-Toe Prowler alone so she can get some actual work done.”
With a suddenly stiffened spine, I turn my attention to the voice emanating from the kitchen. I suppose I should be grateful that Tara and Riker have their clothes on, but the fact that she has an apron over her skintight dress and a mixing bowl under one arm is just as bad.
Sex with Tara is something I understand. I don’t condone it, but I understand it. The domestic arts? I smell something funny…and I don’t mean the delicious scent of cinnamon wafting from her direction. She never used to bake for me like that.
“Goddammit, Tara. What are you doing here?” I ask.
She gives a half shrug, causing the strap of her dress to fall over one shoulder in a move clearly calculated to get Riker’s attention. It does, too. “Same as you. Hanging out, killing time. Was my guess close?”
“Not remotely. I’ve almost got this thing solved already.”
It’s a lie, obviously, and not a very good one, but it’s the only thing I can come up with on such short notice.
“You might show more concern, you know,” I add. “If I so much as see you sniffing around where you shouldn’t be, I’ll hand you over to the authorities so fast, you won’t be able to pack a clean pair of underwear. And I doubt your new friend Chris will bail you out. He wants to see you behind bars just as much as I do. Don’t be surprised if he tries framing you for the whole thing. Grant says that’s probably been his plan from the start.”
That piece of news doesn’t cause so much as a blink. “Uh-oh. Turning tattletale on us?”
“Of course not. Things are more complicated than that.”
I don’t mention how complicated things are or what promises have been made in the name of duty, but that’s more out of a sense of self-preservation than strategy. A good criminal never thinks too hard about her future. Therein only lies heartbreak.
“Does this mean your grandmother took the bait?” Tara asks. “Did you make it into the upper echelons?”
“Not that I should be telling you anything, but yes. I’m in.”
“Good for you.”
“But not so good for you, huh?”
“Oh, I’m not worried. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
Riker apparently disagrees, because he coughs and inserts himself between us—linguistically speaking, that is. “Pen, you know Tara has nothing to do with those thefts, right?”
“I’m not ruling anything out.”
“Well, you should. You’re being stupid.”
One of us is being stupid, but it’s not me. Like it or not, Tara is tangled up in this mess somehow. I’m not saying she’s for sure the Peep-Toe Prowler, but I’m not saying she didn’t do it, either. Her presence in New York is too coincidental, her insistence on popping up everywhere I go too convenient. As our history together attests, she loves toying with me like that.
I turn to my stepmother with a forced smile. “Tara, could you give us a second?”
“Sure thing. Take as many seconds as you need.” With a wave of her spoon, she disappears into the relative seclusion of the kitchen. It’s not the most discreet distance, but it’s not as if I’m going to say anything I wouldn’t willingly—gleefully, even—say to her face.
Still, I drop my voice to a near whisper. “What’s the matter with you lately? Why are you on her side?”
“I’m not on her side.”
“It looks an awful lot like her side from where I’m sitting. Did you forget that she’s a suspect in a federal case—and a primary one, too? If you look out the window, you’ll probably see the detail of men Grant has watching her.”
Riker snorts. “Oh, don’t worry. She says she lost them hours ago. They think she’s shopping for yachts.”
“What?” I go to the window in hopes of catching sight of a dark suit or pair of binoculars pointed our way, but there’s nothing besides the usual neighborhood riffraff selling drugs and scraping registration numbers off bicycles. “Crap! I thought they were supposed to be trained for this sort of thing.”
“And I thought I was the one keeping an eye on her.”
“You can’t watch her all the time,” I retort. Based on the cozy domestic scene I entered, it seems more of a possibility than I would have thought yesterday, but even Riker has to sleep sometimes. “Besides, opening your home to her is hardly a good idea. In case you’ve forgotten, she’s the enemy. The idea is to get her to move on, not move in.”
“Maybe I don’t want her to move on.”
I turn away from the window. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that? I thought I heard you say you want her to stick around.”
He shrugs. “Would it be so terrible? I’ve been doing everything you asked me—hanging out with her, following her around, making nice. She’s not bad, once you get to know her. Did you know she speaks fluent French?”
“Knowing all the dirty words does not make her fluent.”
He ignores me. “And I haven’t seen or heard her do anything that would indicate she’s on a million-dollar crime spree.”
“Well, obviously. Because she knows you’re watching her. That’s what she wants you to believe.”
Riker doesn’t respond right away, and that’s when I know we’re in trouble. No matter what life has thrown at the two of us, Riker has always had something to say. He lectures and argues and keeps going until the last word is his.
My heart sinks. This new responsible independence of his isn’t just a fluke. Something about him really is changing—and if Tara’s involved, it’s not for the better.
“We used to joke about her being a black widow for a reason,” I say, almost pleading. “She uses people for her own benefit and then walks away. She did it when I was fifteen and had no one else in the whole world to turn to. She did it again six months ago when my dad came back. Be careful not to eat anything she cooks, or you might wake up the next day in a bathtub full of ice with your kidneys missing. How do you say dialysis in French?”
Riker’s only answer is a glower.
I assume this means our conversation is over. My intention in coming over today was to get an update and see if he had any ideas about how to utilize my time with my grandmother, but if he’s fallen under Tara’s top-heavy spell, he won’t be a reliable source. Once again, it’s starting to look like I’m on my own.
That’s when I notice the piece of paper rolled out on the coffee table, hastily covered by the sliding corner of Riker’s signature leather jacket.
Without giving him a chance to intervene, I push his jacket away. The slump of fabric hitting the floor seems much louder than it should be, but that’s probably because my attention has reached superhero levels of concentration.
That’s not just any piece of paper. Those are blueprints. Those are blueprints that look awfully similar to the ones he tried to hide from me once before, the ones Jordan assured me were being used solely for bait.
“Riker, no.”
“I can explain—”
“Does Jordan know you have those?”
“She’s the one who gave them to me, but—”
“What? She did? Does she know you’re sharing them with Tara?”
“The only person she made me promise not to show them to is you, so—”
I turn away before he can finish. My friends and I share a complicated relationship, especially now that I’m retired, and I know Riker hinted that they needed a replacement for me when he was buttering Tara up to rummage around in her purse. But they’d never actually take on someone like her.
Would they?
I grab the blueprints from Riker and roll them up, tucking them securely under one arm. I can think of only one reason they’d resort to such extreme measures as allying themselves with Tara Lewis.
“Okay, spill,” I say. “How much do you need?”
Riker sets his jaw.
“And you might as well tell me the full amount. There’s no use asking for half and trying to recoup your own losses on a sure thing. It always costs more that way.”
He has the audacity to look affronted. “I don’t want your stupid money.”
“It’s technically your stupid money as much as it is mine. I saved it from my pre-Grant days.”
“I don’t want your stupid money,” he repeats.
“Fine. Then plan the heist with Jordan and Oz. Plan fifty heists with Jordan and Oz. I couldn’t care less. Just don’t…”
The rest lodges in my throat, oddly sharp.
Like the true friend he is, Riker sees it. And like the true friend he’ll always be, he calls me on it. “Don’t what, Pen?”
Don’t replace me with her. Losing one man and ten years of my life to that woman’s greed was enough. I don’t think I can go through that kind of pain again.
But all I say is, “Don’t suffer in silence. I know you don’t like talking about your gambling problem, and we don’t have to after this, but I want you to know that everything I have is yours. It always has been. Grant doesn’t know about the money, so if you need it…”
“For the last time, I don’t need it.”
“Okay, but at least let me tell you where it’s hidden.”
His jaw ticks angrily. “Would you listen for once in your stupid, stubborn life? I’m fine, Pen. Stop worrying so much about me, and take care of your own shit for a change. I promise—of the two of us, you’re much more miserable. Just look at you. You can’t even be in the same room as your stepmother without having an emotional breakdown.”
The blueprints crunch under my arm. I am not having an emotional breakdown over Tara. I’m having one because in Riker’s eyes, Tara and I are interchangeable, even though the woman has all the trustworthiness of a snake. Twelve years of solidarity mean less to him than one stupid jewelry heist—a heist he wouldn’t even need if he’d just take the money I’m offering.
“I’m not miserable,” I say through gritted teeth, but his look of disbelief speaks volumes. “I’m not. I’m just going through a transition period, that’s all.”
Tara’s reappearance in the living room stops Riker from responding. Even though she’s the last person I want to see right now, I can’t help but be grateful for the interruption. It was inevitable anyway. She probably noticed the heat of drama and was drawn to it like a moth to a bonfire.
When she speaks, though, it has nothing to do with our argument. “I’ve been thinking about your plans with your grandmother, Pen, and I’d like to help.”
Riker and I turn to goggle at her.
“I don’t know how much time you’ve spent in that sort of company before, but there’s no way you’ll pass for Erica Dupont’s granddaughter.”
“I don’t need to pass for her granddaughter. I am her granddaughter.”
“Not in that outfit, you’re not. You look like a juvenile delinquent, not an upscale debutante.”
I look down at my black leggings and oversized T-shirt with a frown. I thought I was looking rather cute today. Slouchy chic is all the rage.
“I wore a skirt to lunch the other day,” I say in my defense. “I’m not totally without resources.”
“What material was it?”
“The skirt? I don’t know. Cotton?”
She shakes her head with a sigh that would have done my grandmother proud. “When’s she staging the grand unveiling?”
“The day after tomorrow—but it’s not that big of a deal. She’s having a tea party at her house so I can meet a few of her friends. She said it would be casual.”
“Yeah, casual as in don’t wear your best ball gown. Second-best will be fine.” She places her hands on my shoulders and gives me a contemplative whirl, ignoring the blueprints under my arm. “I wish you said something sooner. We don’t have much time.”
“Oh, sorry. Does my being on top of things get in the way of your plans?”
“Yes, actually. It does. I don’t know what Grant is thinking, sending you in unpainted and untrained.”
“He was probably thinking he likes the way I look.”
“Either that, or he wants you to fail before you get started.”
“Of course he doesn’t—” I begin, but I stop myself short. Damn. That sounds like something he would do, the sneak. Call me his partner and smile his crinkly eyed smile. Screw me senseless then hold me in his arms for hours. He knows all the surefire tricks to lower my defenses.
Still, “I’m sure he’s not that underhanded,” I say loyally.
“All men are that underhanded. They can’t help themselves.” Tara’s lips spread in a grin, not unlike a cartoon evil stepmother about to get her way. “But it’s okay. Don’t you worry your little head over it. I have just the thing.”
I gulp. Nothing good can come of the patent joy on Tara’s face.
“Penelope Blue, it’s about time I introduced you to the wonders of cashmere.”
* * *
“How good are you at reading blueprints?”
I walk through the door straight to the kitchen, a woman on a mission. It would be easy to let Tara’s insinuations about Grant trying to sabotage me get in the way of our fledgling partnership, but I’m determined to uphold my end of the bargain we struck last night.
“I’m no architect, but I can tell an emergency exit from a window,” Grant says. He looks up from the table, where a slew of papers are spread out in front of him. I assume it’s work he’s brought home, work he’d usually finish at the office away from my prying eyes. I slow my steps at the sight of it.
If this is his way of being open and honest with me, it’s not a bad start. He’s making sacrifices, showing his willingness to change. He’s trying. So far, all I’ve done is warn Tara about Christopher’s intentions—and even that didn’t go as planned.
“Why?” he asks. “What do you have?”
“The plans for a jewelry store.” I wait for him to move a few of his neat stacks aside before uncrinkling the stolen blueprints on the antique slab of wood that serves as our dining table. “I need you to tell me which one.”
He glances up sharply. “Why?”
Because I need to stop my friends from making a terrible mistake, I think but don’t say. Instead, I offer, “It doesn’t have anything to do with the Peep-Toe case, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Penelope… Where did these come from?”
I hold my hands up. “It doesn’t matter. Just trust me, okay? No one is going to steal anything from it—you have my word.”
He watches me carefully—looking, I know, for those oh-so-familiar signs of untruthfulness. But my breathing is even, and my eyes aren’t the least bit dilated. No one is going to steal anything from this jewelry store—not Riker, not me, and certainly not Tara. The monkey in the middle is putting her foot down on this one.
&
nbsp; “I need to figure out where it is, that’s all. You can even put a detail on it if that’ll make you feel better.”
“When has a detail ever stopped you before?”
“Never.” I give a wry grimace, thinking of Tara and her lost FBI tail. You have to admire the woman’s innovation. “Pretty please? I tried looking them over myself, but something doesn’t make sense. It’s not like any jewelry store I’ve seen.”
“All right.” He sighs. “Let’s take a look.”
It says a lot about Grant that he only wears his frown for the first ten seconds. At ten and a half, his expression fills with the little-boy excitement he always gets when presented with a challenge. Our roles might be carefully delineated—good and bad, lawman and outlaw—and I respect that, but in another lifetime, he’d have made a hell of a jewel thief.
The drawing is crude, a hastily scribbled reproduction of real blueprints, lacking in identifying marks should it fall into the wrong hands. It also has swirled notations around most of the entry and exit areas, indecipherable to anyone but my crew. The notations are a trade secret of ours, which is why I know this thing is serious.
Bait, my ass. This may have started as an attempt to help Riker out of his financial troubles, but they’ve been working hard on this. There’s real intention here, real possibility. I’d be thrilled if I didn’t feel like it was cracking me in two.
Grant runs his finger along a few of the lines. “I see what you mean. It’s not like any jewelry store I’ve seen, either.”
“Right?” I lean over his shoulder to get a better look. “It’s too open in the center area, and there’s a bathroom on either side of the building—I’m guessing men’s over here and women’s here. No jewelry store would separate the restrooms that way. They’d want to keep an eye on everyone coming and going.”
“There’s also this second floor.” He taps the page. “Offhand, I know of three freestanding jewelry stores in the city with an upstairs, and it’s not any of those. Are you sure it’s local?”
“No, I’m not.” It would make total sense for my friends to strike outside the tristate area, especially if they didn’t want me to get wind of what was happening. In the past, we always stayed pretty close to home; a new operation might bring new geographical limits. “Isn’t there a database or something you could run this through?”
Saving Mr. Perfect Page 17