Saving Mr. Perfect

by Tamara Morgan

  “We may need to start considering the possibility that she has information that could help our case. Out of respect for you, I could do it off the books, meet her somewhere later tonight. At this point, no one needs to know she’s involved.”

  Every muscle in my body tenses. So this is it, then. Late-night, clandestine meetings and threats of exposure, a plan to pull her in without the protection of regular FBI protocol.

  “No,” I say, for what I hope will be the final time. “And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t ask again.”

  I prepare to return to the house.

  “Wait, where are you going?” Christopher calls after me.

  “To the crime scene. I’d like to take a look at the video surveillance while the burglar might still be in the immediate area.”

  “The video?” he echoes. “Emerson, wait a second. How do you know there’s video?”

  Because, unlike him, I noticed the electrical box on the exterior panel near the side window as I approached. Except homes like these don’t have visible electrical boxes—not if they can help it. They pay a lot of money for the power companies to hide them. My guess is it’s not electric at all, and that there’s a series of wireless cameras all over the grounds transmitting to that box.

  Surveillance footage is the one thing we’ve been missing since the start. And based on the panic in Christopher’s voice, it sounds as though my fearless leader had no idea this house was being watched.

  “Emerson. Stop. How do you know there’s video?”

  My heartbeat kicks up a notch. In fact, it sounds as though my fearless leader knows he’s about to be caught red-handed. This could finally be it—the break I’ve been waiting for.

  Unfortunately, the telltale swish of a gun being pulled from its holster causes my accelerated heart rate to stop cold. “Don’t take another step,” Christopher says, his voice not panicked now so much as on the edge. “I mean it.”

  Even though I know it behooves me to tread warily, I can’t help laughing at the sight of his gun pointed straight at me. He wouldn’t dare. In the broad light of day? With a full team of agents standing a few feet away?

  “I mean it, Emerson,” Christopher says. His words are even, but I notice the tip of his gun shake. “You can’t pull that video feed.”

  “Or what?” I ask. “You’ll kill me?”

  “Just head back to the field office, okay? I’ll handle things from here. That’s an order.”

  I laugh again, but there’s no humor in it. No way am I walking away from this now, not when he’s all but admitted I’m going to find his face on that surveillance camera. Finally—finally—I’ve got the proof I need to put a stop to this thing.

  “Put the gun away,” I say coldly and turn on my heel. “You can’t shoot me; the house is full of agents. You’ve been caught. It’s time you faced up to the consequences of your actions.”

  I’ll never know which part of that decision was my biggest mistake—taunting him or turning away—but I have a strong suspicion it’s the latter. I showed him my back. Never show a coward your back.

  “Emerson, you can’t—”

  Either he doesn’t finish that statement or the blast of gunpowder covers the sound, because I don’t hear it. My senses are too tied up in the blinding pain of a bullet—a real one this time—tearing through my torso at lightning speed, searing me from the inside out.

  Christopher fucking Leon.

  As my body seizes up in pain and I’m sent sprawling to the dirt, my only thought is that I can’t believe I didn’t see this one coming.

  25

  THE CALL

  “I’d like to report a crime.”

  Cheryl looks at me over the top of her glasses, unimpressed and unmoved by my confession—which is a little rude, if you ask me. Coming up with the resolve to do this wasn’t easy. “You’re too late. It’s already been called in.”

  “What?” I ask. “That’s impossible. It hasn’t been committed yet.”

  “Then how can you report it?”

  “I’d like to report a potential crime. I know where the Peep-Toe Prowler is going to hit next.”

  Cheryl’s lack of interest, apparent in the dry disbelief of her tone, remains firmly in place. “Oh? Do tell.”

  I shift from one foot to the other. “Well, the thing is, there’s a stipulation.”

  “Of course there is.”

  “I need a promise that no one will be arrested.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “But people cut deals with the FBI all the time!” I protest. “That’s what I want to do. Cut a deal. And I’d like to do it anonymously. Also without Grant knowing about my involvement. On a scale of one to a weekend trip to Mars, how impossible are we talking?”

  Her glance is full of Mars. “It doesn’t matter. Like I said, you’re too late. It’s already been done.”

  “But that’s impossible!” I cry. There’s no way the Conrad Museum heist is set for any time before the night of the ball. I know how my friends operate, and we never do anything without a crowd. Sneaking into an empty museum is virtually impossible, since every alteration of regular protocol is noticeable in a big way. Lots of people around means lots of opportunities to blend in. “There must be a mistake.”

  “I don’t make mistakes. As much as I’m sure we would have loved your anonymous and highly suspect tip, you missed your window by”—she checks her watch—“about one and a half hours. The Peep-Toe Prowler has already hit.”

  So much for my good intentions. “Shit. Did they take the whole collection or just the necklace?”

  She glances at me over the top of those glasses again, ignoring my question. “You don’t sound very upset.”

  I try again, this time picturing my friends sitting over a pile of the jewelry I begged them not to take. “Shit. Did they take the whole collection or just the necklace?”

  “Much better, but I don’t have the specifics yet. I’m sure Agent Emerson will file a full report when he gets back from the house, and you can talk to him then.”

  It’s as good as a dismissal. I’m fully willing to take it as such, but I stop before I turn all the way around. “Wait, did you say house?” I ask.

  She blinks at me. “No. I said the scene of the crime. I’d never give away unnecessary specifics.”

  “You did! You said house!”

  “Sorry, Penelope. You must be imagining things.”

  “After all we’ve been through together, Cheryl, you can’t lie now. Whose house?”

  She presses her lips together in a firm line of refusal.

  “I’m not leaving this desk until you tell me,” I warn. “And believe me when I say I can wait all day. I literally have nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. Do you have solitaire on your computer?”

  Her lips crack enough to allow a sigh to escape. “It was in the usual spot,” she says. “Private residence, upscale address. From what I gather, the most valuable thing taken was a peacock brooch.”

  That’s funny—I remember seeing a peacock brooch the other day, at my grandmother’s first tea party. It had been a heavy thing, pulling at Millie’s blouse so that it sagged in tandem with her breast.

  I halt.

  “Not Millie Ralph’s house?” I don’t wait for a response. It is her house, I’m sure of it. Usual spot, private residence, a party this morning. All the signs are there. “You don’t have to say anything. Look at me disapprovingly if I’m right.”

  Her eyes, already full of disdain, don’t so much as flicker.

  “But that doesn’t make any sense! I was there today—and let me tell you, there was no one suspicious at that party. No dark figures, no weaselly-eyed deliverymen. Not even a rogue butler.”

  That’s when the pieces click. There may have not been any of the usual suspects, but there was a chauffeu
r. Well, a sort-of chauffeur. A man speeding away from the scene so fast, he almost hit an innocent bystander; a man visibly nervous as he drove me to my father’s; a man Grant has spent weeks trying to convince me is a villain.

  “Oh, no,” I blurt.

  “Uh…are you okay?”

  “This is bad.”

  “You look awfully pale.”

  “I must be the worst investigator of all time.”

  “Do you want to sit down?”

  I stare at Cheryl, her question barely registering. “I think I need to sit down.”

  I don’t wait for her to offer me a chair, opting instead for one of my favorite austere metal seats by the wall. Cheryl watches me without a word, though I notice she discreetly picks up the phone. Calling security, most likely. Either that or someone to come tranquilize me.

  Not that I’d stop them if they tried. Numbness is taking over, my body on hold while my brain grapples to figure out what happened this afternoon. I was present at the scene of a theft, obviously, but more than that, I solved this case.

  For the second time.

  My friends. Not my friends. Christopher Leon. Not Christopher Leon.

  I don’t know what’s going on anymore, but the thing I can say for sure is that I saw Christopher fleeing under highly suspicious circumstances. Which is great. Which is fantastic.

  Except that if I saw Christopher at the scene of the crime, that means he also saw me. And there’s no denying I was present at that party today. The witnesses number in the dozens.

  Oh, hell no. I am not taking the fall for this. Not for some chintzy peacock brooch.

  “I need to talk to him,” I announce to no one in particular.

  “Penelope, hon, is there something I can get you? A glass of water, maybe?” Cheryl starts to look genuinely concerned, which isn’t good news from a woman whose primary worry in life is whether she’s carrying enough weapons on her body at any given time.

  “I need to talk to Grant,” I repeat. “If you can’t get him on the phone, then I need a radio. Or a car to take me over there. Please. It’s important.”

  “Penelope?”

  Cheryl and I both turn at the sound of Simon’s voice. I never thought I’d be so relieved to see his pinched face and tightly buttoned shirt, but these are strange times.

  “Thanks for coming so quickly,” Cheryl says in a low voice. “I didn’t know who else to call. It’s not like her to freak out. She’s usually so blasé.”

  “You did the right thing.” He moves across the room with two long strides before shoving me back down in my seat. As if that physical contact isn’t unprecedented enough, he squats in front of me and clasps my hands in his. Of course, he then counteracts the gesture with a sharp, “Stop with the hysterics, Blue. You’re making a scene. Take a deep breath, and tell me what’s going on.”

  The breathing part I can do, but—“I’m not sure I know… I can’t figure out…”

  “Yes, you can. Tell me.”

  Simon might be a dick, but he’s effective. I try again.

  “Okay, so in order to work on that…thing we talked about, I’ve been spending a lot of time with my grandmother, right? Nothing big, just keeping my eyes peeled and poking around to see what people know. On the down-low, of course.”

  A jerky gesture of his hand tells me to hurry up, so I do.

  “Well, I was with my grandmother this morning.”

  “So?”

  “We were at a brunch together. A brunch at Millie Ralph’s house.”

  He snaps to attention, dropping my hands with a start. “You mean you saw it happen?”

  “Unfortunately, no. But when I was leaving…” I can see that Cheryl is doing her best to appear occupied and uninterested in our conversation, but she’s been stapling the same sheet of paper for a full minute now. I drop my voice. “Simon, he was there. He was speeding away in a black muscle car.”

  “Who was? Oh.” The full meaning of my confession takes hold. “Oh.”

  My sentiments exactly. “He almost ran me down a block away, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time,” I say. “I mean, I was hesitant at first, but once I got over the initial shock, he drove me back to my dad’s hotel like it was no big deal.”

  “You got in his car?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” is all I say. It’s going to be enough of a challenge trying to explain it to my husband.

  “But if he knows you were there, if he knows you can place him at the scene of the crime…”

  Our eyes meet.

  “I’m worried about Grant,” I say, my voice high.

  “I’m sure he’s fine. Emerson can take care of himself. The more important thing to do in this situation is make sure you’re fine. You’re not going to like this next part, but I’m going to have to place you in protective custody.”

  “Wait, what?” I spring to my feet, angling my body for a clear path to the stairwell. “Simon, have you lost your mind? You can’t lock me up. I didn’t take anything. You have to believe me.”

  “I do believe you, but I have no other choice. He’ll never forgive me if I let anything happen to you, and you may have just become the material witness in this case.” The handcuffs come out, and I swear there’s a glint of pure joy in his eyes. “It’s for your own good, Blue.”

  “I’ll witness your dead body at my feet before I let you handcuff me again.”

  The fear of knowing that Grant is out there with Christopher imbues me with a strength I didn’t know I had, because I feel fully capable of seeing that threat through to the end. Simon must recognize it, too, because he pauses.

  For a moment, I think that pause is going to stretch into infinity. We’re locked in stalemate, he and I, united in our loyalty to Grant but somehow always finding ourselves on opposite sides.

  It’s only when Cheryl breaks the silence—her voice a flat monotone I know I’ll hear in nightmares for the rest of my life—that we’re able to start moving again.

  “I just got a call. They’re reporting shots fired at the crime scene. Sterling, they’re saying we’ve got a man down. They’re saying it’s Emerson.”

  26

  THE AFTERMATH

  Despite a lifetime spent bending society’s rules and treating government regulations more like guidelines than requirements, I’m a fairly peaceable person. My friends and I don’t carry firearms on the job, and we operate under the premise that no prize is worth harming another human being. We deal in commodities, in replaceables—in the things in life that shouldn’t matter but that people tend to pin their hopes and dreams on anyway.

  That being said…

  “I’ll kill him.” Even though Simon’s car has stopped, the locks are still activated, so I start rolling down the window. “I’ll wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze until there’s nothing left. I’ll stab him with a pen until he’s more blood than skin. I’ll rip out his fingernails and his teeth and his testicles until he begs me to send him off into the sweet bliss of death.”

  The locks pop open. “Don’t forget the eyes,” Simon says. “Everyone always forgets the eyes.”

  My laugh is shaky, but not as shaky as my legs as I climb out of Simon’s car and dash toward the emergency room doors. “You don’t think he’s here, do you?”

  “Who? Leon?” Simon is barely half a step behind me. “No, they’ll have taken him into custody by now.”

  “Damn.”

  “Don’t worry, Blue. We’ll get our chance. He can’t stay locked up forever.”

  It’s a strange moment of solidarity, the pair of us standing on the threshold of New York-Presbyterian Hospital as we picture various ways in which to end Christopher Leon’s life, but the blood-soaked thirst of my rage has been the only thing keeping my other emotions at bay. Now that we’re here, with the bright lights of the hos
pital overhead and the efficient movements of the medical staff around us, it’s difficult to keep a grip on my anger. I’m slipping, swirling, sinking—and the one man I can count on to pull me back up is bleeding out on a gurney somewhere inside.

  “He’s going to be okay, right?” I ask, unable to take that first step inside.

  “I don’t know.” Simon’s face is a hard mask as he pushes me through the doors. “All they would tell me is that Leon shot him in the back.”

  I don’t know enough about anatomy or modern medical care to know what that means, but the pit of my stomach doesn’t like the way it sounds.

  “Excuse me,” I say to the first person I see in scrubs. “My husband was brought in for a gunshot wound. How do I—”

  The look on the young man’s face confirms my worst fears and adds a few more on top. “You’ll need to take a seat in the waiting room. Someone will be with you shortly.”

  “Yes, but I need to see him.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s standard protocol. I’m not allowed to tell you anything more.”

  “Because he’s dead?”

  He neither confirms nor denies it. “Have a seat. I’m sure the surgeon will be out to speak with you as soon as he can.”

  Surgeon? The closest I’ve ever come to a surgeon was the time Riker got a bad stomachache when we were seventeen. We thought it was appendicitis and came up with a plan to discreetly leave him at the hospital doors under an alias, but it ended up being nothing more than a twenty-four-hour flu. And a good thing, too, because Riker was trying to convince Jordan to remove his appendix so he could avoid being put in the system.

  The second medical professional in scrubs is equally unhelpful. “I’ll tell you exactly what the last person told you—you have to take a seat and wait. I’m sorry. We’ll give you more information as soon as we have it.”

  Simon and I have no choice but to comply, if only because the woman firms her stance and glares until we choose a pair of plastic waiting room chairs. I force a deep breath even though the constriction of my lungs sends me into a whirl of panic. The smallest crawl spaces in the dingiest holes have nothing on this moment.