There aren’t many places I can go in this city to be alone with my thoughts, which is why it’s no surprise I’ve ended up in the rare books room at the library. I sit in my usual seat, munching on a candy bar I smuggled in inside the leg of my pants. My dad used to come here when I was a kid, citing the restful atmosphere and absence of his young daughter as two very good reasons for retreat. I sort of picked up the practice when he was gone. Many a heist has been plotted here, many a problem solved.
It’s difficult for me to see a way out of this one, though. The Conrad Museum. The Starbrite Necklace. My friends and Tara in possession of the blueprints that provide access to both.
I tip back on two chair legs, staring at the ceiling as I try to wrap my brain around everything I know. Grant always says that new agents spend too much time acting and not enough time thinking. Even though I’m not a real agent, this is probably as close as I’ll get, so the advice holds.
He also says to take emotions out of the equation, but I doubt that’s going to happen anytime soon. I’d like to be the hard-headed, efficient machine he so often becomes in times like these, but I can’t. I can’t.
My friends and I have done a lot of unsavory things in our lifetimes, but the one thing I could always count on was our commitment to one another. I don’t love all of Riker’s life choices, and he definitely doesn’t love all of mine, but the unspoken rule is that nothing—nothing—can break the bond we share.
But they broke it. I broke it. It’s broken.
Not only is the Conrad Museum not a jewelry store like Jordan said, but the target has always been diamonds. Sure, there’s a chance they’re after an emerald necklace instead of a diamond one, but I highly doubt it. The Starbrite Necklace is too ideal a target for that.
My instincts wouldn’t lie—it’s everything we love in a take. It’s big and flashy and valuable enough to be worth the risk. Ten million times valuable enough, in fact. Security is tight, and access is limited most of the time, but a fancy setup like the ball opens up all kinds of possibilities. Next to jewelry stores upgrading their systems, it’s our favorite setup.
There’s no other way to look at this situation. I can’t be the only one getting excited about that necklace sitting in a museum, just waiting to be taken. My friends obviously heard about it and didn’t want me to know about their interest, so they lied about the blueprints. All of them, including Oz. I didn’t think it possible.
As if that isn’t bad enough, there’s also Tara to consider. Back when I was part of the team, I was the one responsible for the actual stealing. In order to pull off the same caliber of job as before—which the Starbrite Necklace obviously is—they’d have to find a replacement. Tara showing her face at just the right moment would have clinched the deal.
They disregarded what that woman did to me. They cast aside my pleas not to be forgotten, buried, left behind. They proved that when it comes to our history together, the next big take matters more than everything we’ve shared.
Despite all that, I can almost forgive them for it. Stealing things, planning heists—it’s the only thing we know how to do. If the past six months of my own struggles are any indication, it’s also who we are. If letting go of that hurts me this much, with Grant as the prize waiting for me at the end of each day, then I can hardly fault them for not following suit.
But.
I rock my chair down on four legs, hitting the carpet with a dull thud.
But.
There’s more to this situation than just a shiny necklace in a museum—and if I hadn’t been so caught up in my own affairs, I might have recognized it earlier. The truth is, the Peep-Toe Prowler operates too close to my methods to be a coincidence. It’s what made me think I was a suspect in the first place, what makes me so determined to uncover the truth now. Whoever this thief is, she’s got a serious Penelope Blue vibe.
And my Penelope Blue vibes? They’re feeling very, very excited about this Starbrite thing. If I hadn’t made a commitment to Grant—if I wasn’t determined to make a go of this honesty nonsense—I would be all over that necklace. Which means there’s a good chance that the Peep-Toe Prowler will be all over that necklace, too.
So either my friends are planning a heist to steal a necklace that the Peep-Toe Prowler is also planning to steal, or…
“Oh, no.” I groan, letting my head drop to the table. It shakes, but the wood is heavy enough to hold my many burdens. “It’s them, isn’t it? It’s been them all along.”
All their meetings without me. Their willingness to help me break into the FBI despite having already decided I wasn’t a suspect. Even their willingness to help me out now, obfuscating the truth at every turn. There’s no other way to take it: they’ve been using my proximity to Grant—using me—to get away with it this whole time.
The empty room doesn’t answer. Thousands of years of knowledge are trapped inside these rare books and manuscripts, and they have no advice for an ex-criminal whose federal agent husband is letting her help catch a group of thieves who also happen to be her best friends.
Whose side are you on, little monkey? the books ask mockingly. Good or bad? Right or wrong? Your husband’s or your friends’?
Stupid books. They’ve never been much use to me in the past, and they’re certainly not helping now. What I should do is burn the lot to the ground and fake my own death to go along with it. Short of breaking into the Conrad Museum and taking the damn necklace for myself, it’s the only exit strategy no one would see coming.
My breath catches, and I sit up straight.
No, Penelope, I think. You can’t. You promised Grant that no one would steal from there.
I did promise, comes the faintly mocking reply. But I never said I wouldn’t look around…
“Uh, ma’am?” The security guard at the door pokes his head in. “Is everything okay in here?”
“No, everything is not okay. I’ve been betrayed.”
He blinks. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave. We don’t allow that in here.”
“Betrayal?” I laugh. “That’s what you think. It’s everywhere.”
“I was actually talking about the candy bar.” He points at the table. “There’s no food in the rare books room.”
I get to my feet, tucking the crumpled wrapper in my pocket as I do. “Fine. I’ll leave, but only because this place is useless to me now. It’s been tainted.”
“Do you need me to call someone?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
It’s a bald-faced lie. I’m not good—I’m not even okay. But if history has proven one thing, it’s that Penelope Blue doesn’t stay down for long. My heart might be breaking and my marriage stumbling, but for the first time in a long time, I have a plan. There’s not much to it yet, but I need to see that necklace and witness for myself what kind of security protocols are in place. Not to steal it, of course. This is to solve a case, help my husband, get my life on track.
And if I find a few of my friends wandering around the building while I do? I tuck my wobbling lower lip between my teeth. Well. That’s a road I’ll cross when I come to it.
21
THE NECKLACE
It takes several casual phone calls and a chance meeting at my grandmother’s, but I manage to convince Jane to meet me at the Conrad Museum for a private tour.
The museum isn’t very tall, but it takes up half a block, signaling its importance to the city’s cultural backdrop. The people passing by—mostly dog walkers and au pairs—also indicate the wealth of the area, as does the valet parking out front. If those signs weren’t enough to indicate that this bland, unassuming building holds a necklace worth ten million dollars, then the security features I immediately pick out would do the job.
Take that small doorway at the front, for example. There’s nothing about the single frosted glass door that inspires awe, but it’s a good det
errent for the theft of large-scale items—specifically, framed art and sculpture installations. If the item won’t fit, it’s not coming out that way. Similarly, the lack of windows across the front means outdoor surveillance is impossible. You have to get inside to survey the building, which comes with a higher risk of detection. And one of the large skyscrapers next door houses a bank on the bottom floor—complete with an ATM outside—which means there’s an external video surveillance feed to worry about.
I might not know as much about museum architecture as Grant’s friend Mariah, but I can tell you this much—breaking into the Conrad isn’t for the faint of heart. These people are good at security. There’s a reason my friends and I avoided places like this for most of our career.
Jane pulls back from the airy kiss she lands on my cheek and gestures at the museum, seeing none of the same details. She’s here as a favor to an old friend, her errand pure and simple, and I can’t help but envy her for it.
“I’m so glad you asked me to show you the collection,” she says warmly. “I’ve been dying for an excuse to see it again.”
“No, thank you for making it so easy to get in.”
She looks stunning in flowing black pants and a black blouse that billows all the way down her arms. Repeating Tara’s cream-colored skirt risked exposing myself as the fashionless hack I am, so I stopped at the bioluminescent store on the way here. The wood pulp tunic the sales clerk suggested is a lot less weird than it sounds.
“I was under the impression it was almost impossible to see,” I say.
“Ah, that’s because you don’t have my connections. Welcome to a whole new world of inside access.” Jane winks and leads the way into the museum with a sure-footed speed even Tara would be forced to admire.
At first glance, I don’t see any major security features other than the traditional electronic system at the front door and individual triggers on each of the displays. Unfortunately, I don’t have a chance to look deeper before a dapper, mustachioed museum curator greets us with outstretched hands.
“Pierre, so lovely of you to squeeze us in.” Jane leans in to Pierre to plant another of her airy kisses. “This is the girl I was telling you about, Penelope Blue. She’s Lily’s daughter.”
He turns to me with alarm. “What? Impossible! This is no girl. She’s too old.”
I guess maybe the wood pulp isn’t as flattering as I’d hoped.
“I expected a baby, a child. If Liliana’s daughter is this old, then we’re…”
“Ancient,” Jane says wryly.
Pierre laughs and extends his hand. It’s surprisingly soft. “I refuse to accept it. You’re not her daughter; you’re her spirit reincarnated.”
“Um. Thank you?”
“You’re welcome. I liked Liliana. A wild thing, but always good for a laugh. I was sorry to hear of her passing.”
My chest gives a painful squeeze. He’s not the only one. “How did you know her? Were you two friends?”
Pierre shakes his head, his mustache twitching. “Oh, no. She was quite above my touch.”
Jane interprets for me. “Nonsense. When we first met, Pierre was an art tutor, and we were his wayward pupils—I never could get the hang of watercolors, even at his exorbitant rates. It didn’t take long for him to surpass me in this world. As you can see, he now holds the keys to some of the most beautiful art collections in the world.”
I perk up at the picture thus conjured. “My mom was an artist?”
“Not at all. She was worse at watercolors than me.” Jane speaks in a friendly way that robs her words of any offense. “She mostly came along to keep me company.”
“You mean cause mischief,” Pierre suggests. “She once switched the lids on my oil paints when I wasn’t looking. My next pupil gave his Mona Lisa purple skin.”
That picture causes me to perk up even more. The idea of a serene mother figure painting watercolors is fine and all, but I can identify much more strongly with this delinquent version of her.
But Jane quickly corrects that assumption. “That was my idea, I’m afraid, Pierre.” She turns to me with a warm smile. “Don’t believe a word either he or your grandmother says about your mother—she was an angel.”
Although I’m dying to hear more, Pierre shows himself ready to move on. He nods once and ushers us through the rest of museum, showing it off with a proud, almost paternal air.
Poor man. If only he knew what kinds of plots are underway.
As expected—and as the blueprints indicated—the museum’s main area is cavernous, lofty and wide with a few displays artfully arranged to make it appear even larger. Residing as I do in Grant’s living museum, every nook and cranny filled with memories and treasures, this waste of space alarms me.
Equally alarming is the blasé way Pierre leads us into an elevator at the back of the museum. The metal doors open to reveal a space so small, it sets my heart racing to look at it. I know, on a cognitive level, that it’s another security feature to limit access to the second floor, but that knowledge doesn’t make me feel better about stepping inside.
In an attempt to distract myself from the familiar signs of claustrophobia—heart pounding and breath coming faster—I decide to get to work.
“I was just thanking Jane for bringing me to see this collection before it’s gone,” I say. “I understand it’s pretty exclusive.”
Pierre’s mustache twitches, but I can’t make out the full expression of his lips underneath. “A financial necessity, unfortunately. The display was open to the public when we first opened, but our insurance company decided they didn’t care for that. We had to move the collection upstairs to a more secure location, and access is by appointment only. To be honest, I’ll be glad when it’s no longer my responsibility.”
The elevator shudders. Almost by impulse, my hand shoots out and grasps Jane by the arm. She feels tense, and I wonder if she, too, gets nervous in spaces like this.
“Sorry about that,” Pierre says as we finally reach the upper floor. “We have someone coming out to look at it tomorrow.”
My step wavers as I get off the elevator—and not only because I’m grateful to be in the open air again. Elevator repairs are one of Oz’s specialties. He looks incredibly convincing in coveralls and can also install an override chip to control the movements from afar.
In other words, things are looking very good for my friends…and very bad for me.
In the twenty seconds it takes to get to the collection door and wait for Pierre to swipe his key card and enter the access code—it starts with a two, but I don’t see anything beyond that—I make a quick survey of the scene. In addition to elevator access, there’s an emergency stairwell exit on one side. It’s protected by an alarm system, but those can be bypassed, so it’s a possible way in. The vents are small, though—almost as small as the ones at the FBI—so those are probably out.
Which is no real surprise, to be honest. If my friends don’t have me to fold up like a pretzel, they’ll need to get in a different way.
“And here it is!” Pierre opens the door to the display room, but I notice that before the overhead lamps turn on, he issues a voice command to disengage a blinking red light off to one side.
I know what that blinking red light is. It might not look like much, but should one of us light up a cigarette and start puffing, the answer would be clear.
Lasers.
Oh, God. They’re going to try and get past lasers. Riker must be in his element—he’s been preparing for lasers his whole life. I know him well enough to assume he’ll try using mirrors—something that only works in the movies, and even then only with perfect timing and expert intervention. If he wants an actual chance of getting through, the system will have to be electronically disabled, which isn’t nearly as much fun but just as risky.
“Oh, and I’ll need you both to sign in.” Pierre hands Jane
a clipboard and apologizes as he asks to check our IDs. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have a problem with his request—there are no fewer than three fake driver’s licenses in my wallet at all times—but with Jane watching and the introductions already made, I’m forced to pull out the real deal.
Jane smiles as she passes me the clipboard. “This is so they know who to blame if anything goes missing. Better keep your hands in your pockets.”
I finish signing my name with mixed emotions, my presence here sealed and delivered. Whether I like it or not, there’s no way I can take the necklace for myself now, and I’m equally committed to stopping my friends—and/or the Peep-Toe Prowler—from making the attempt. Grant will never forgive me if he shows up to investigate a burglary only to find his wife listed smack in the middle of the suspect list.
I guess this is what I get for letting my interest in this case get the better of me. Curiosity killed the cat burglar.
“I’ll do that,” I manage, and I sneak a quick glance at the other names before Pierre takes the clipboard back. Nothing pops out as an alias my friends have used in the past, and I don’t see any mention of Christopher Leon or Tara Lewis, but that doesn’t mean much. “So do we just walk around?”
“Take all the time you want. I’m merely the gatekeeper.” Pierre takes a post near the door. It’s the only way in or out of the room, but that doesn’t mean a crafty thief couldn’t cut in through the walls from the outside, assuming they disabled that ATM camera next door. “And let me know if you have any questions.”
I do have questions—hundreds of them—but I keep my thoughts to myself as Jane and I work our way clockwise through the room, admiring the fifties- and sixties-era jewelry displays secured behind thick glass cases. Ornate flower brooches inlaid with mother-of-pearl, square-cut emeralds and jade layered into chunky necklaces, diamond cuff bracelets… It’s quite a collection, and I can understand why the Peep-Toe Prowler—or Prowlers, as the case may be—are looking here next.
Saving Mr. Perfect Page 20