The Sweetest Heist in History

by Octavia Spencer

  Randi scribbled notes as she read. The disappearances all had several things in common, she noted. A distraction of some sort had preceded each one. Plenty of people had the opportunity to handle the eggs in the hours before they vanished. But there were never any suspects because no one had had the chance to steal them. The Imperial Eggs were simply there one moment—and gone the next. A reporter joked that the thief had to be an invisible man. Who else could steal an egg from a guarded chamber, a moving plane, or an occupied bedroom? Randi knew there had to be a more logical explanation.

  She felt for the phone in the pocket of her jeans. Mysteries like this were her dad’s specialty. Randi was about to dial his number when she remembered the argument they’d had on Thanksgiving Day. Any mention of missing Fabergé eggs was bound to make him suspicious. She hated keeping secrets from her father, but sometimes it was for his own good.

  Herb Rhodes answered after the very first ring. “Randi? Everything okay? It’s past midnight your time.”

  “Everything’s fine,” she assured him. She could hear tinkling glasses and laughter in the background. Her father was out to dinner. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

  “Oh good.” He sounded relieved. “Ask Gigi to make you a glass of hot milk. When I can’t get to sleep, that usually does the trick.”

  “Okay,” Randi said, though she hadn’t had a glass of milk in at least five years.

  “Is there something on your mind, kiddo?”

  “Why didn’t you call today?” Randi asked, surprising herself. “Is it because you’re mad at me for busting that burglar?”

  “Hold on one moment, sweetheart,” Herb Rhodes said with a sigh. She heard him making excuses to his dinner companions. He was taking the conversation outside. “No, of course not. When I talked to your aunt on the phone yesterday, she told me that I overreacted. I’m sorry, princess. I wanted to give you a little space. That’s why I didn’t call today. I don’t want you to think I’m always breathing down your back.”

  Randi grimaced. If her father only knew what she’d been up to in the last twenty-four hours, he’d lock her in her bedroom for the rest of her life.

  “You don’t have to worry about me so much, you know,” she said, trying to convince herself at the same time. “I’ve told you a million times that I’m old enough to take care of myself.”

  “I know. It’s just . . .” He cleared his throat. “It’s just that you’re the most precious thing in the world to me, Randi. If something were ever to happen to you . . .”

  Randi could hear the fear in his voice, and she didn’t enjoy knowing that she was responsible for it. “Nothing’s going to happen to me, Dad,” Randi tried to assure him.

  “You’re twelve years old and you think you’re invincible,” Herb said. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “Understand? Understand what?” The word had annoyed her. One of the many problems that came with being twelve was that no one expected her to understand anything.

  “That you’re responsible for the people who love you,” her dad told her. “It’s your job to protect them whenever you can. But it’s just as important that you protect yourself. Because the worst thing that could possibly happen to someone who loves you would be to lose you.”

  He was trying to tug on her heartstrings, and it didn’t seem fair. She hadn’t called her dad to fight, but Randi could feel the anger rising within her. “If I’m so darn important to you, why are you off on a book tour right now?”

  “Excuse me?” Herb Rhodes asked. “What does my book tour have to do with this?”

  “Everything! Don’t you see? This trip meant everything to me, but you didn’t even consider my feelings,” Randi said. “I thought we were going to go visit Mom together. But then you left us again to go talk about books. Just like you used to do back when Mom was alive.”

  Herb Rhodes cleared his voice twice before he spoke. “Have you been to the cemetery to see your mom yet?”

  “No,” Randi said. “But when I do, I’ll be sure to send your regards.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The left side of Randi’s face was blazing hot. She opened her eyes to find the sun streaming in through the living room windows. She’d fallen asleep facedown on Gigi’s desk. In an instant, Randi was out of her seat and standing at the window. The museum across the street was dark and the street below deserted. If anything had happened during the night, she’d managed to sleep right through it.

  Randi dropped back down into the chair and quickly called the New York Times up on the computer screen. The front-page stories covered a scandal in the mayor’s office and a baboon that had escaped from the Prospect Park Zoo. There was no mention of stolen eggs.

  Gigi glided out of her bedroom in a floor-sweeping silk dressing gown. “Nothing happened?” she asked with a yawn.

  “Nope,” said Randi.

  Gigi didn’t seem to mind. “Then I guess our little adventure is over,” she said as if little adventures were a dime a dozen. “Sure was fun while it lasted.” She lay down on the sofa and flipped on the television. The local news channel appeared on the screen.

  A female reporter was interviewing the woman who had chased Randi out of the Fabergé exhibit. According to the caption on the screen, her name was Beverley Winthrop, and she was a curator at the museum. Behind the two women, men wearing white gloves were opening crates. For a moment, Randi was confused. Then she realized that the footage the news channel was playing had been recorded inside the museum the previous night.

  “Turn it up!” Randi cried.

  “We’ve been informed that there was a security incident earlier today,” the television reporter said. “Can you tell us more about that?” She thrust the microphone at the other woman and waited for a response.

  Beverley Winthrop turned an unflattering red. “I would hardly call it an incident,” she snipped. “A child entered the museum before official visiting hours. Security cameras tracked her movements throughout the museum, and she was apprehended right here in this room.”

  The reporter produced a professional-grade frown. “Surely any breach of security must worry you,” she said. “Three Imperial Fabergé eggs have disappeared in recent years. Law-enforcement officials believe they might have been stolen, but the thieves remain at large. Are you satisfied that the museum is prepared to house two dozen priceless eggs?”

  “Absolutely,” Beverley Winthrop insisted. “In fact, after the child was taken into custody this morning, the NYPD agreed to provide additional security throughout the exhibit’s run. There’s no risk whatsoever of these eggs vanishing.”

  Randi grinned. Officer Cody must have made good on his promise and asked his boss to assign additional cops to the museum. Maybe that was the reason the eggs hadn’t been stolen. The extra security could have convinced the thieves downstairs to call off the heist.

  “Thank you, Ms. Winthrop,” said the television reporter, marking the end of the interview. She turned away from the frazzled curator and faced the camera with a wide smile. “The Fabergé Imperial Eggs have arrived at the Brooklyn Museum, and they’re being unpacked as I speak. Each one is a remarkable work of art and craftsmanship. Together, the twelve eggs are estimated to be worth half a billion dollars.”

  The Channel One camera zoomed in on a man with a beard opening one of the crates in which the eggs had arrived. A sparkling oval rested in a nest of tiny foam beads. Made of gold and decorated with diamonds, the egg appeared to be a clock with a bouquet of white lilies sprouting from its top. The man carefully removed the egg, handling it as if it were made of spun air. The camera followed him as he gently placed the egg on a pedestal.

  When he’d finished his work, the man glanced up at the camera. He quickly turned away, but for one fleeting moment, his full face was captured on film. And Randi’s heart nearly leaped out of her chest.

  “I swear I just saw the German guy from downstairs,” she told Gigi.

  On the television, the camera was panning acros
s a dozen Fabergé Imperial Eggs that had already been removed from their crates. They were displayed on pedestals that stood on a long, velvet-covered table. The glass cases that Randi had seen when she broke into the exhibit were still empty.

  “Why are the eggs just sitting out in the open?” Randi wondered aloud.

  The reporter seemed to reply directly to Randi. “Some lucky celebrities and VIPs will be given a sneak peek of the Fabergé exhibit tomorrow evening. The mayor has invited a select group to see the eggs up close and personal—and discover the secrets within them. After the party, the miniature treasures will be placed in specially made display cases. And on Sunday morning, the Imperial Eggs will all be on view to the public.”

  “Maybe the thieves were scared off by the security,” Gigi said, reaching the same conclusion that Randi had come to. “Looks like they must have missed their big opportunity.”

  Randi didn’t answer. Her eyes remained glued to the television screen. Before the channel cut to commercials, she saw him. The man with the scarab tattoo was standing guard by the door to the exhibit. His face was as unreadable as ever. But somehow he didn’t look like a man who’d just missed out on a big opportunity.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  * * *

  MOVING OUT

  Randi was dreaming she was swimming through caramel again when a voice whispered in her ear.

  “Can you help me?”

  “Mmmrwwwaaa!” She sat bolt upright in bed, ready to attack the intruder.

  “Randi, it’s me!” D.C. cried, grabbing the wrist of the hand that had nearly punched him. His reflexes were getting faster and faster, Randi noticed. “I need your help!”

  “What time is it?” Randi asked. After an uncomfortable night on the desk, she’d fallen back asleep in her bed. Even with the shades closed, her room felt as bright as the sun.

  “It’s noon,” D.C. said. “The tournament exhibition starts in three hours.”

  He was nervous, and Randi could hardly blame him. It would be only his second time performing in front of a crowd—and his first time performing in front of his father.

  “What do you need?” Randi wiped the sleep out of her eyes. “Want me to practice with you or something?”

  “No,” D.C. said shyly. “I need you to help me do my hair.”

  “What?” Randi laughed before she saw the serious look on D.C.’s face.

  “Jake said I couldn’t wear a headband. Will you fix my hair so it covers this?” He tapped the hearing aid in his ear.

  “Why do you want to cover it?” Randi asked, though she already knew the answer.

  “My dad’s going to be there,” D.C. said. “I don’t want him to know I still have it. I want to look fit and strong.”

  Randi’s heart broke when he said it, but she didn’t for a moment let on. She knew that D.C. blamed himself for his parents breaking up and his dad moving away. D.C. had been born premature, which left him with asthma and hearing problems. He thought his dad was disappointed to have been burdened with a sickly kid. If that was true, it was Hector Cruz’s problem, Randi thought. It had nothing do with his amazing son.

  “If you want to impress people, I wouldn’t hide that hearing aid when we get to the tournament,” Randi said. “I’d show it off instead. It’s not proof that you’re weak, D.C. It’s a sign of your strength. You had to face a lot of challenges to get as good as you are. It was harder for you—and that’s why you’re more skilled than those other kids.”

  D.C. hung his head. “I don’t think my dad will ever see it that way.”

  “Jake will,” Randi said.

  Those two words seemed to make all the difference. D.C. cracked a grin. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.

  “Of course I am!” Randi exclaimed, falling back on the pillows. She could have used another hour of sleep. “I’m always right.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Overnight, the warehouse in which the Tae Kwon Do tournament was taking place had undergone a makeover. The mats were gone. There were no clusters of spectators and participants. There was only a single stage at one end of the building, with spotlights shining down upon it. The rest of the warehouse was dimly lit. Two thousand eyes were glued to the action taking place on the stage. Standing at its base, waiting for D.C.’s performance to begin, Randi scanned the crowd, looking for the man whose picture D.C. carried with him wherever he went.

  “Any sign of him?” D.C. asked anxiously. An eight-year-old girl was performing an impressive series of kicks onstage. Her performance would be over soon, and an eleven-year-old boy was eagerly waiting on the stairs to take her place. When he was finished, it would be D.C.’s turn. Jake, Gigi, Pudge, and Randi were there, waiting to cheer him on. Hector Cruz was not.

  Pudge tried to break the news gently. “I don’t think your dad’s here yet.”

  “He’s not,” Randi said. And at this point, he might not want to show up, she thought. I got a few things I might have to say to him if he does.

  “I’m sure your father’s just stuck in traffic,” Gigi tried to assure D.C.

  “Or maybe he wrote down the wrong time,” Pudge tried.

  “Or maybe he’s just a selfish jerk who needs a good punch in the nose,” Randi said, earning an elbow in the gut from Pudge.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” Gigi said, admonishing Randi for the first time ever.

  Jake must have been watching D.C. grow increasingly worried, because he took the opportunity to step in.

  “It wasn’t nice what Randi said,” Jake agreed with Gigi. “But it was true. And D.C. is strong enough to handle the truth.” He squatted down in front of the boy and took D.C. by the shoulders. “I don’t think your dad will be coming today.”

  D.C.’s lower lip started to tremble. “Why?”

  Jake never took his eyes off of D.C.’s face. “Well, now, let’s talk about that for a minute,” he said. “Why do you think a father wouldn’t see his son for three years? Or make an effort to go see his boy perform?”

  Tears raced down D.C.’s cheeks. “Because he thinks his son is weak and worthless.”

  Randi could feel tears in her own eyes as well, and she wanted to hug the small boy.

  “You’re wrong, D.C. You’re not the weak one,” Jake said. “He is. Your father didn’t come today because he’s ashamed of how he’s treated you, and he can’t face up to it.”

  “You think?” D.C. asked.

  “I know,” Jake told him. “Look, fathers are just like everyone else. None of them are perfect. Good fathers make mistakes, too. Mine certainly did. But they own up to their mistakes. They don’t hide from them. They try to fix them instead. If your dad was worth a darn, he’d have seized this opportunity to make things good with his son. Instead, he couldn’t find the courage.”

  D.C. wiped his tears away with the sleeve of his dobok, and Randi was glad to see that no more arrived to replace them. She couldn’t help thinking about what Jake had said. Her father had made his share of mistakes as well. No one could accuse Herb Rhodes of being perfect. For years, he’d spent more time with his books than he had with his family. But the move to Deer Creek had been his attempt at fixing that mistake. Randi had been the one who’d pushed him to start writing again.

  “Now, get out there on the mat,” she heard Jake order D.C. “Make it good, too. I got a couple of guys standing over there waiting to see what you can do.”

  He pointed to two hip-looking guys with chunky black glasses who were standing on the edge of the crowd.

  “Who are they?” D.C. asked.

  “Casting agents,” Jake said. “I’m not just in town for the tournament. I’m filming a few scenes in Chinatown for my next film. And as it turns out, we need someone your age to double for the kid who’s gonna star in the movie.”

  “And they’re interested in me?” D.C. asked breathlessly.

  “I told them you were the man for the job,” Jake said. “So do your best not to prove me wrong.”

 
D.C. started to argue. “I don’t know if I can . . .”

  “Son, after all you’ve been through in your life, I’d be real surprised if there’s anything you can’t do.”

  D.C. beamed from ear to ear.

  “And now,” they heard the master of ceremonies say over the loudspeaker, “representing the twelve- and thirteen-year-old age group, Dario Cruz!”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The performance had been a spectacular success. The crowd had oohed and ahhed with every kick D.C. executed and every punch he threw. And when he’d ended with three perfect jump spin hook kicks in a row, the audience had roared with excitement. Even better, D.C. had landed the job of stunt double in Jake Jessop’s next movie.

  Now they were back at Gigi’s house, gathered around the dining room table and feasting on six different kinds of takeout. The next day would be the ninja detectives’ last in Brooklyn, and Gigi wanted to give them the kind of feast they’d never find back in Deer Creek, Tennessee. There were dishes from every corner of the world—Lebanon, Cuba, Malaysia, Argentina, and Sweden.

  “When was the last time you ate goat?” she asked D.C., holding up a spoonful of chunky, delicious Cuban goat stew.

  “Couple months ago,” D.C. replied matter-of-factly, and the whole table laughed.

  “What?” he asked, turning red. “Did you guys forget that I live on a farm?”

  “I’ve eaten a few goats in my day, too,” Jake said. “My mother back in Louisiana makes a mean Cajun goat curry.”

  “Is that where you live?” Randi asked. “Louisiana?”