Uptown Thief

by Aya De León

  Finally, he left the apartment. Cristina ran to the window and back to report he was really gone.

  Slowly, the vomiting subsided. Cristina handed her a wad of toilet paper. Marisol wiped her mouth, then collapsed back on the floor, sobbing and shaking. Cristina squeezed next to her, pressing her forehead against Marisol’s. “You did it,” she said. “You fooled him and we get to cry now.”

  Chapter 17

  Monday was Valentine’s Day. At 5:30 p.m., Marisol hustled down an icy street in midtown. The snow had melted a bit then frozen as the sun set. In front of her, a trendy young woman in high-heeled ankle boots nearly slipped.

  Marisol walked carefully in her soft-soled shoes. Shoes that made no noise on carpet, didn’t squeak on hardwood floors, and had shallow treads that didn’t leave prints.

  On her way to the building where “Tammy” had been lost two days before, she needed to run an errand. Serena was supposed to drop off the advisory committee application, but she had the flu. Marisol hated mixing clinic business with heists, but the rest of the team was booked.

  Inside the municipal building’s heavy double doors, a security guard had three banker’s boxes for proposals. Marisol reached into her messenger bag and pushed aside a hard hat, wig, and ConEd vest. She pulled out the application and set it in the third box.

  On her way out, she ran into Raul.

  “I’m so glad you decided to apply,” he said with a bright smile. “And I like the braids.”

  Tyesha had cornrowed Marisol’s hair into a coil to fit under a wig.

  “Maybe you’ll wear your hair like that to our date,” he suggested.

  Marisol laughed out loud. A release of tension. After this final heist solved the financial crisis, she deserved a reward.

  “Maybe I will.”

  As she turned to leave, he grabbed her hand. “I’m glad I ran into you. Happy Valentine’s Day.” He kissed her cheek.

  “Same to you,” she said. She felt the imprint of his lips all the way to the train.

  * * *

  As Marisol was dropping off the proposal, Tyesha was walking into the lobby of the “Tammy” apartment building uptown.

  Marisol had sent her with a burglary prep plan that had Tyesha wearing a tight red-and-white-striped dress. In white-gloved hands she held a heart-shaped box of candy. No prints.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day.” She smiled at the fifty-something West Indian doorman. “I’m from the Midtown Candy Factory.” She held out two wrapped chocolates. “Do you like milk or dark chocolate?”

  “Either one suits me fine, young lady,” he said with a grin, and she handed him a candy wrapped in red foil with silver stars.

  “How about you?” she asked, as she strode across the lobby to the security guard. “You like chocolate?”

  “Definitely,” he said. He was in his thirties, black American.

  She pulled out two candies in pink foil. One with hearts, the other with cupids. Tyesha chose carefully, because Marisol had dosed some with sedatives. The ones for the doorman had just enough to make him drowsy and disoriented. The ones for the guard would put him to sleep.

  “Milk or dark chocolate?” she asked the guard.

  He grabbed the two chocolates out of her hand. “I’ll take both.”

  “Wait!” Tyesha said as the guard unwrapped the milk chocolate and popped it into his mouth. A double dose could be dangerous.

  “Hold up now,” she said. “They’re supposed to be only one per customer.”

  “How you gonna tell me I can’t have two?” he asked.

  “I’ll get in trouble on my job,” Tyesha said.

  “Your boss ain’t here,” the guard said, toying with the other candy.

  “I’m running low on dark chocolate,” she said, pulling a silver-wrapped candy out of the box. “Can we trade?”

  “It’s not for me,” he said. “It’s for my girlfriend. She likes her chocolate dark.”

  “It’s a gift?” Tyesha asked, her eyes following the chocolate as he rolled it from hand to hand.

  “For Valentine’s Day,” he said.

  “That’s sweet,” she said. “I’m not supposed to do this, but if it’s a gift, let me put it in a box.” She pulled out a tiny red heart box.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, still holding on to the candy.

  “Tara. What’s yours?”

  “Dante,” he said, rolling the candy between the thumb and fingers of his left hand, making a crinkle sound with the foil.

  “Dante, are you gonna let me wrap the candy for your girl?”

  “She’s not my full-time girl,” he said. “I can have friends.”

  Tyesha set her jaw, and looked him in the eye with her seductive face. “Dante, I want to wrap your candy. Can you? Let me? Wrap your? Candy?”

  She reached over the desk and took it from him, brushing against the back of his hand.

  He let the candy go with a grin, and she switched it. “It’s been a pleasure,” she said, handing him the box.

  “Be more pleasurable if you gave me your number,” he said, holding on to her hand.

  “Save your pleasure for your girlfriend,” she said, and pulled her hand away with a wink.

  * * *

  Tyesha strode three blocks west to a trendy Asian restaurant. Through the plate-glass window, she saw the hostess seating two middle-aged couples. One of the men matched the photo on her phone—the tall, balding man who had hosted the party where Kim cracked the safe. His wife was a willowy brunette with a highball glass of liquor.

  Tyesha called Marisol. “All clear.”

  “Almost there,” Marisol said. “I caught one of the last trains before the subway closes for repair.”

  “Dante, the security guard, might hit on you,” Tyesha said.

  “Anything else?” Marisol asked.

  “No,” Tyesha said. “I’m headed into a midterm.”

  She was about to enter Central Park, where she’d cross over to Columbia on the West Side. “Who’s the lookout?” she asked Marisol.

  “Nobody,” Marisol said. “Kim and Jody have client dates. Eva’s at some fund-raiser.”

  “I’ll skip the test,” Tyesha said. She headed back to the restaurant. “You need backup.”

  “Absolutely not,” Marisol said. She passed a row of street vendors. “We need you to get that fellowship for next year. This can’t affect your grades.”

  “But, Marisol,” Tyesha said. “You don’t even let us do sex calls without backup—”

  “Don’t argue,” Marisol said. “Kim already cracked the safe. I’ll be in and out in five minutes. Go take your test.”

  “Fine,” Tyesha said, turning back into the park. “What about Serena? She wouldn’t have to know. Just put her in a cab to watch these folks. She could text you if they leave or something.”

  “She’s not part of this,” Marisol said. “It’s just the four of us plus Eva.”

  “Except you asked Nalissa to drive you home tonight,” Tyesha said.

  “That couldn’t be helped,” Marisol said. “The East Side trains are running express between Fifty-ninth and One-twenty-fifth, and I can’t get a cab. I’m not gonna carry a big donation for thirty blocks. Don’t worry. She’ll be picking me up at the building around the corner to keep the donor anonymous.”

  “I don’t trust her,” Tyesha said.

  “Me, neither,” Marisol said. “But it’s just a ride. Stop worrying and go take your exam.”

  * * *

  In a restaurant bathroom, Marisol put on tinted safety glasses and the short auburn wig. Her thick gray jumpsuit was perfectly nondescript.

  At the mark’s apartment, the doorman let her in. She strode straight to the elevator, ignoring the security guard who was beginning to nod. Once the doors closed, she put on latex gloves.

  On the seventeenth floor, she looked up and down the empty hall. The couple who lived there would just be ordering dinner. Her heart beat hard as she fumbled with the lockpicks. The tumble
r clicked and she was in. Closing the door behind her, she could feel the razor edge of anxiety subside, but adrenaline continued to pump.

  The large living room was decorated in a Middle Eastern theme, with marble floors and Persian carpets. Marisol saw a framed enlargement of an article she had read in Forbes about “human interest innovation.” She recognized a picture of a tall man shaking hands with the governor, the Ivy Alpha board president whose company was recognized for work on behalf of “the Mexican victims.”

  Marisol crossed the living room into a hallway, and flipped on her flashlight. She had memorized Kim’s floor plan, and she went straight to the study.

  Marisol stepped into a dark room dominated by a wide, cluttered desk. Above it was a large wood carving of the Ivy Alpha fraternity crest. The guy was the CEO of a high-end sportswear chain that had several factories in Asia, and one in Juárez.

  Marisol slid her hands behind the crest and found the safe. She opened it quickly with the combination Kim had given her. Marisol opened her bag to load the cash, but the safe only had a few jewelry boxes and a stack of five-dollar bills.

  She pocketed the cash, and pulled out her flashlight to inspect the jewelry. High-end fakes, not that she would have taken them anyway.

  Why would people lock up fake jewelry?

  Marisol looked again at the safe. It was built-in. Part of the original building from the 1920s. A decoy?

  The phone rang and Marisol jumped. The machine picked up after three rings: “Sorry we can’t get to the phone right now,” a woman’s voice drawled. Marisol felt behind what looked like some sort of diploma in an oversized frame.

  Marisol got down on her knees and shone the light on the desk. Could they have a freestanding safe?

  “Meredith? Meredith, it’s me. Pick up if you’re there.”

  Marisol crawled across the study floor and let out a cry as she stuck her palm on a tack.

  Fuck! She peeled off her glove and sucked on the heel of her hand. As the woman’s voice ranted about some mutual friend, Marisol dug out a spare glove and put it on. She flashed the light onto the floor to make sure she hadn’t bled onto anything. Standing, she pocketed the tack. She walked carefully around the desk and swung her flashlight beam around the study. No safe.

  “I’d be pissed if I wasn’t worried about her,” the woman’s voice said.

  Marisol crossed the hallway. It had to be in the bedroom, unless it was a floor safe. Given all the Persian carpets, she prayed not.

  “I hate to put you in the middle,” the woman said. “But do you think I can trust her?”

  Marisol stepped through the half-open bedroom door. She felt behind the various wall hangings with no luck. In the center of the room was a king-size canopy bed, and above it, a large painting of a desert landscape. Marisol kicked off her shoes and climbed onto the bed. She slid her hand behind the painting and felt the seams in the wall that outlined a small door.

  Standing on the bed, she removed the painting to reveal the safe. In the dim room, she fumbled for her stethoscope.

  “So call me when you get this . . .” the voice on the answering machine went on. “And Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  At last, the machine beeped again, and went quiet.

  Marisol took a deep breath to hush the jackhammer of her heart and tapped twice on the door of the wall safe. She put her stethoscope to the door and slowly turned the dial. The pads of her fingers pressed against the slightly serrated surface of the metal dial, as she turned it carefully to the right, waiting for the first sound of the safe’s three-click reply.

  The safe whispered the first click in her ear. As she turned the dial to the left, she could feel the pull of the latex where the blood was sticking her palm to the glove.

  She had just heard the third click, and swung the safe door open, when another sound sent a spasm through her body. She froze, one hand gripping the safe’s dial, the other clenched on the stethoscope.

  Through the open bedroom door, she heard keys and then footsteps.

  “You’re drunk, Meredith,” a man’s voice boomed. “Not tipsy. Drunk.”

  Marisol couldn’t make out the words of the woman’s voice, only the whine of protest.

  She looked into the safe and saw several bricks of cash. She lifted them out silently and shoved them into her pockets.

  A light snapped on in the front hall, bathing the bedroom in an ambient glow. Marisol was clearly exposed.

  She tore off the stethoscope and crammed it into her pocket. She grabbed the painting and hung it up. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she shoved her feet back into her shoes and snatched up her bag.

  “I don’t care about the Colemans,” the man said. “You’re not fit to be out in public. Now, go sleep it off.”

  Marisol had left the bedroom door ajar. She crept over to it and peeked out, blinking at the bright light in the living room.

  The man had his back to her, but she recognized his tall frame from the photo. The CEO. The sex trafficker. The pillar of the community. He pulled off a thick coat, and slid a cap off his bald head. He tossed them onto the back of a chair without taking his eyes off his wife. She faced Marisol’s direction, unsteady on her high-heeled boots, a scarecrow in her tasseled dress, waving slightly.

  Marisol saw the insolent look in the wife’s eyes. The two of them weren’t moving, just scowling at each other.

  The woman spun on her heel, heading for the front door.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” the man asked, stepping after her.

  “To order takeout,” the woman said. “I never got any fucking dinner.”

  Marisol watched the woman rummage through a basket of menus. The man stood over her, glowering, as she dialed the phone.

  Marisol transferred the bulky cash and the stethoscope from her pockets into her shoulder bag, and exchanged them for the ConEd hard hat, which she put on. The woman put her finger in her ear and said hello. When she turned away from him to order, Marisol stepped out into the hallway and opened the kitchen door wide, snapping on her flashlight.

  “Hello?” Marisol called, pointing the flashlight into the hallway.

  “What the hell?” The man wheeled toward her.

  “I’m calling nine-one-one.” The woman blinked several times and pressed buttons on the phone.

  “Sorry to startle you folks,” Marisol said. “Feel free to call, but we already alerted them about the gas leak.” She shut off the flashlight. “We checked out the units above and below, but I don’t know why your upstairs neighbor smelled gas. I’ll have the boys check the line, but I couldn’t find a thing.” She strode right up to them and stood close enough to smell the liquor on the woman’s breath. The woman hung up the phone. The man seethed.

  “What the hell are you doing in our apartment?” he demanded.

  “The security guard let me in,” Marisol said, shrugging and putting the flashlight away. “Dante.”

  “That idiot was falling asleep at the desk,” the man said.

  “Well, I’m done here, unless either of you has been smelling gas. Have you smelled gas?” she asked as she eased past them toward the door.

  “Wait just a minute,” the man said, taking her arm.

  “Don’t put your fucking hands on me,” Marisol said. “I’m just trying to do my fucking job. And if your gas lines are as bad as your security, it would serve you right if your damn apartment blew up. You should be fucking thanking me.”

  She strode past him. In the bag, she kept the flashlight gripped tight in her fist.

  Her other hand was on the door and she was turning the knob when the wife spoke. “But our range is electric.”

  Over her shoulder, Marisol saw the split second when the man’s face transformed, his eyes widening with comprehension and fury. He pushed the wife aside and lunged toward Marisol.

  She swung the door at him and it knocked him back. She was two steps ahead of him, running out the door, but he leaped after her and tackled her in the
hallway, grabbing her at the knees. She pulled out the flashlight, and as the two of them fell, she twisted her body so she wouldn’t be facedown. He fell on top of her, and attempted to hit her in the face, but the blow glided off the ConEd hat.

  The pressure of his body on her chest brought a spasm of memory. She let out a howl and swung the flashlight with all her strength. She connected with the side of his head. He grunted and slumped down across her body, his chest on her abdomen. Blood gushed out onto the carpet. Marisol wriggled out from under the unconscious man, her stomach threatening to heave.

  “See, Steve?” the woman yelled. “I’m not that drunk. I knew we had an electric stove and you didn’t, you arrogant bastard.”

  Marisol ran down the hall. The last thing she heard as she tore open the door to the stairwell was the woman calling, “Steve? Steve?”

  * * *

  Marisol could barely feel the ground under her as she passed the dozing guard and the doorman, blinking against sleep.

  In the stairwell, she had removed the hard hat and the ConEd vest, and shoved them into the bag, along with the bricks of cash.

  She felt the jagged rattle of adrenaline in her limbs. She breathed in the night air, and the urge to vomit subsided.

  Tyesha was right. She should never have done the job without backup. Someone to watch the mark, make sure they didn’t come home early. Anyone who could see a drunk woman being escorted from a midtown restaurant and text her a warning.

  She moved through the clotted foot traffic in the thick slate-gray outfit and auburn wig. She held the shoulder bag balled up in front of her chest.

  Just around the corner, she could see the dark town car, and Nalissa’s bright red hair through the front windshield. The image of the man flashed into her mind again. His dark green suit, blood on his bald head.

  She opened the door of the car to get in.

  “Just a moment, miss.” She felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. Instinctively, she dropped her shoulder bag onto the floor of the car. She felt her heart in her throat.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, turning around. It was the older security guard and a younger female guard.

  “Miss, there was a robbery around the corner,” the young woman guard said. “A man was injured. My colleague here said you just exited the building. Do you mind coming back to answer a few questions?”