“Either that, or he’ll call the cops and get us thrown in jail.”
I look over at Grant sharply. Suddenly it’s not so funny anymore.
“Kidding,” he says. Then adds, “…I think.”
“I really wish you hadn’t told me that.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine. Come on, we need to go before the neighbors get up.”
He opens the front door and peeks out into the street. Then he glances down at the ground – and freezes.
“What?” I whisper.
He bends down and picks up a newspaper from the front porch. It’s new – no sign of weathering at all.
Our faces – both Grant’s and mine – are visible on the curved surface of the rolled-up paper.
What the HELL?!
“Why are we on the front page of the news?” I ask, my voice unnaturally high and panicked.
Grant shuts the door and unfolds the paper so we can see.
In the dim glow coming through the closed Venetian blinds, we read the headline:
BILLIONAIRE ART THIEF EXPOSED
Underneath is a picture of Grant at some society gala, and a picture of me that’s probably out of my company’s personnel files. There’s a caption beneath them.
Billionaire architect/construction magnate Grant Carlson and his alleged accomplice, Eve Saunders.
“What the FUCK?!” I gasp, nearly hyperventilating.
“…why don’t you go make some coffee,” Grant says, his eyes never straying from the page.
Not that I need it anymore, since the adrenaline pumping through my blood is ten times more powerful than caffeine.
11
Here’s the gist of the article, which we read huddled over the kitchen table – with a couple cups of coffee.
A bizarre turn of events has revealed that billionaire architect Grant Carlson, one of the richest men in the US, has a secret art collection probably worth as much as his private fortune. Unfortunately, all the paintings are stolen.
NYPD officers responded to a call on Tuesday afternoon by security staff at Carlson’s private residence. It appears there was a raid by a group of men posing as FBI agents, who presented a warrant to Carlson’s security staff. But the men were not who they said they were.
“Everything looked official – it was like a real raid with the warrant and the body armor and the blue jackets with the yellow letters and everything,” said Jim Kucher, the head of Carlson’s private security detail. “But they weren’t the FBI.”
The Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Washington headquarters confirmed Tuesday night that they had not conducted any raid on Carlson’s property, and had not been investigating him.
“Oh no…” Grant mutters.
“Oh my God – oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I whisper.
The faux raiding party detained the security staff and then entered the top floor penthouse. Members of the staff claimed they heard multiple gunshots and automatic weapons fire, although there were no bulletholes at the scene when the NYPD arrived.
“I don’t believe this,” Grant hisses.
“That ASSHOLE…”
Carlson apparently fled the mystery men by rappelling down the side of the 88-story skyscraper – a feat made all the more impressive by the fact that he didn’t do it alone. In his company was Ms. Eve Saunders, an internet security expert Carlson had hired days earlier – and perhaps became romantically involved with.
“Oh God,” I cringe. It pretty much sucks when your ‘business’ gets aired in front of millions of people.
Numerous eyewitnesses confirmed that the couple ended their 1300-foot descent on the sidewalk outside the building, then made their getaway in a taxi.
“Our ‘getaway,’” Grant snarled. “How about the psychopath we were running from, you idiots?”
The fake raiding party vacated the building immediately afterwards, leaving the security staff bewildered. When he could not find Carlson or Saunders, security chief Kucher called the police, who responded immediately.
What the authorities found defied belief.
In a secret room in the penthouse, police discovered a collection of paintings by some of the most famous artists in history. The one thing they had in common: every single one had been stolen over the last 30 years, and never recovered. Works such as ‘View of the Sea at Scheveningen’ by Vincent van Gogh and ‘Le Pigeon Aux Petits Pois’ by Picasso hung on the walls. The combined worth of the paintings is estimated to exceed $1 billion.
It is alleged that Carlson bought the paintings on the black market and stocked his own private art gallery with them. The extent of Eve Saunders’ involvement in the thefts is unknown, although it appears she is an accomplice in his getaway.
Currently Carlson and Saunders’s location is unknown. They are both wanted for questioning in connection with the stolen artwork.
“Oh no… no, no, no, no, NO,” Grant groans, his head in his hands.
I just sit there, numb.
First chased by a serial killer.
Now chased by a serial killer AND the NYPD.
Out of the frying pan, into the bonfire. With some gasoline thrown in for fun.
12
I take it as a mark of Grant’s desperation that he turns on the television. With the volume waaaay down low, of course.
Things are just as bad on TV.
Every morning news show in New York – and most of them in the country – are covering it.
Lots and lots of pictures of Grant, and the same cringeworthy photo of me from my company’s personnel files.
There’s cell phone footage of us rappelling down the building.
There’s eyewitness accounts from people who saw us on the sidewalk.
There’s an interview with the cleaning lady from the 70th floor.
Lots of stock footage of paintings by van Gogh and Picasso.
Plenty of shots of the building’s exterior and lobby, but no footage of Grant’s apartment.
And not a single interview with any of his security staff, either.
“I need to call Jim,” Grant says as he stares at the TV.
“Your security guy?”
“Yeah.”
“No. Unh-unh. Bad idea.”
“I need to know some things.”
“They’re all alive. You know that now.”
“I need to know if any of them betrayed me.”
“You’re not going to find that out from talking to them. It’s not like they’re going to say, ‘Oh, by the way, I sold you out.’”
“What if he can give us clues on who the gunmen were?”
I shake my head. “You really think Epicurus left that to chance? Even if we could find out their identities, they probably don’t have any idea who hired them.”
“Then maybe they can tell us what he looks like.”
“You yourself said that he wasn’t there.”
“I could’ve been wrong.”
“I doubt it. He was talking over speakers – he probably hacked into your home entertainment system through the main computer network.”
“I have to know, Eve.”
“But – ”
“I hired you to help me.”
His voice is an accusation, a command, a bitter rebuke.
It stings. Like I’m the kitchen help or something, and not the woman he made love to just a few hours ago.
WHY am I putting my neck on the line for this guy? I ask myself again, in a darker echo of my thoughts last night.
And then his tone softens, as though he realizes he’s stepped over the line. “I need you to help me do this. Please.”
I can hear the pain and frustration in his voice. I sigh. “This is a bad, bad idea.”
“Can you do it without them tracing our location?”
“Probably… but it’s still a bad, bad idea.”
“Do it anyway. Please.”
I nod, and boot up the house computer in the den.
13
Grant st
ands over me nervously. “What are you doing, again?”
“I’m going through a deep web connection and filtering it through a – nevermind. I’m making it look like we’re in Mexico. That’s all you need to know.”
“You sure it’s foolproof?”
“Nothing’s foolproof, because fools are so ingenious.”
He looks at me like Quit fooling around.
“Hey, I don’t have to do this,” I say. “In fact, I don’t want to do this.”
“Just go ahead and do whatever you’ve got to do.”
“Then quit hovering over me like a helicopter parent.”
“Fine.” He starts pacing behind me, which is only marginally better.
“What happened to that ice water in your veins, dude?” I say as I put the finishing touches on the reroute.
“It’s there when I have control over the situation. I don’t have any control over the situation here.”
“I don’t know that being chased by Dobermans is ‘control over the situation.’”
“It is when I’m in the moment. It comes down to what I do. Here… I can’t do anything. I’m totally reliant on you.”
For some reason, that kind of makes me feel good.
“Well… leave the digital Doberman evasion to me,” I say, and hit ENTER.
A long series of numbers unspool onscreen, and then we get a black window with a blinking cursor.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“It means we’re in.”
“‘In’ where?”
“Your security system back at the penthouse.”
He stares at the screen. “Really?”
“Really.”
“It was that easy?”
“Nooo… I’m just that good,” I say, slightly offended.
“Of course,” he demurs, then says, “So what now?”
“Now we access the phone lines, and hopefully we get Jim or somebody else on – ”
Suddenly the cursor starts moving, leaving letters in its wake.
My heart jumps into my throat.
Grant can see I’m not typing. “Are you doing that?” he asks, alarmed.
I don’t need to answer, because the message onscreen does that for me.
Eve, you naughty, naughty girl. Caught you sneaking in the back door.
14
Grant sucks in his breath sharply. “Epicurus?”
I nod mutely.
“Pull the plug!” Grant hisses.
“He can’t trace us. There’s no point in bailing now.”
As if to corroborate my words, the cursor flashes onscreen:
Nice job erasing your trail. How’s Guadalajaro?
“He really thinks we’re in Mexico?” Grant asks.
“I doubt it. But as far as he can tell from our internet footprint, that’s where we are.”
With almost eerie prescience, the cursor types again.
Or Brooklyn? Or Long Island? Or Newark? Or D.C.? Shall I keep guessing?
“Shit,” Grant whispers. “He knows we’re local.”
“It’s a reasonable assumption. He knows we couldn’t have gone too far.”
“We could have been in New Zealand by now,” Grant mutters.
“Okay, then he’s assuming we didn’t go too far.”
“How?”
I shrug. “Fifty-fifty chance. We either stayed or went.”
“…okay…”
“Seriously, you weren’t this jumpy when you threw us out of a skyscraper yesterday.”
“Control over the situation,” Grant reminds me. “How did he find us?”
“He must have hacked your system yesterday when his fake FBI crew invaded, so he could talk over the speakers. Then he set up some kind of a monitor program to let him know if we tried to get into the system, too.”
Letters appear onscreen.
Why so laconic?
I type back, You seem to enjoy hearing yourself talk, so I thought I would indulge you.
When I’m behind a computer, I’m in my element. My happy place. I have a sense of unshakable power.
I’m only giving it free reign now because I’m as careful as I am powerful. There’s no way he can find us here, which is why I can be a smartass.
Not everybody realizes that, though.
“You really want to antagonize him?” Grant asks.
“You mean, because I’m afraid he might do something worse than torture and kill me?”
Grant just sighs.
Epicurus types, You have quite the sharp tongue, Eve. I shall enjoy removing it.
Whatever floats your boat, sicko, I reply.
I’m not sick, Eve, though someone of your limited intellect might see it that way. I merely have very rarefied appetites –
Yeah, yeah, untamable, unquenchable, undeniable, yadda yadda. I heard your spiel yesterday, and it was boring then too.
“Seriously?” Grant says.
“Maybe I can goad him into making a mistake.”
Grant shakes his head. “Just… see what you can find out.”
“Oh, and here I thought I’d just chat with him all day,” I say sarcastically.
I type, Grant was impressed by you sending in a fake FBI squad.
Clever, wasn’t it? I –
I interrupt him again. I said GRANT was impressed. I wasn’t. Obviously you haven’t seen any Hollywood movies from the last 20 years, or you’d know you’re as derivate and lame as you think you are brilliant. Which means you’re INCREDIBLY derivative and lame.
“Jesus, Eve…”
“What?”
“He’s not the one on the lam, you know.”
I’M not the one on the run, now am I? the cursor types out.
Grant said exactly the same thing, I type. Which means Grant is either as smart as you, or you’re just as dumb as Grant.
“Hey!” Grant snaps.
“Kidding.”
You’re both fools. You’ll be begging me for your deaths very shortly.
Right, right, I type. Were you the short, fat, fake FBI agent we saw, or the tall, ugly one?
Cute, Eve. Cute.
You were the cute one? Now I know you’re delusional.
You fish for information like a blind man setting up a string of dominoes.
Very carefully?
No – with no success, and all your efforts fall in shambles around you. You’ll get no information from me.
Grant said that there was no way you were in the penthouse, because you’re a coward who kills women. Guess he was right, I typed. Especially now that I know you hacked his security system.
“Ohhhh God,” Grant mutters.
“What?” I ask.
“You really are trying to make this harder on us, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m trying to get under his skin.”
You little bitch, the cursor typed. You’re going to suffer more than any of the others ever did.
“Mission accomplished,” I tell Grant.
Epicurus keeps typing. I’m going to do such horrible things to you that you have no –
BORED now, I type. YAWN.
You insufferable little –
Hey, Epi-pen? Fuck off.
Then I pull the computer’s plug out of the wall, instantly shutting it off.
Grant stares at me in wonder.
“We can go now,” I say brightly.
15
Grant parts the Venetian blinds and looks out at the street. “There’s an old Chrysler out there I can hotwire pretty easily.”
“You can hotwire cars, too?” I ask, incredulous, as I root in a closet and find a baseball cap for him and a hoodie for me.
“We rappelled down a skyscraper. You think hotwiring cars is complicated?”
“Okay, okay. How fast can you do it?”
“30 seconds and we’re on our way.”
“Why not a taxi? Is it really worth taking that risk?”
“Considering our pictures are plastered all over every newspaper and televisi
on broadcast in the state right now, yeah, I’d say it’s worth the risk.”
I sigh. “Alright, let’s go.”
“By the way, that was really hot how you handled Epicurus on the computer,” Grant says, giving me a mischievous look. “Stupid, but hot.”
“Funny, I’ve been thinking the same about YOU since I found out your ‘hobby’ yesterday. ‘Hot, but definitely stupid.’”
He grins. “Are you ready?”
“No. Does that matter?”
“Not really. Let’s go.”
And then we’re out the door.
16
The hotwiring goes off without a hitch. No one spots us, or at least no one makes a commotion. It probably helps that he looks like an overgrown frat boy in his baseball cap, and I’m barely recognizable with my hoodie cinched tight around my eyes and chin.
It’s only 6:30AM and traffic is light, so twenty minutes later we’re back in the same neighborhood we fled from yesterday – skyscrapers and luxury buildings surrounding Central Park.
“Please tell me we are not breaking back into your place,” I plead with him.
“We’re not – although that’s a great counterintuitive move.”
“NO.”
“Don’t worry, I have something different planned.”
“You seem a lot more confident than you were back when I was on the computer.”
“Like I said, I’m back in control of the situation.”
“Most psychologists say that feeling like you’re in control is a delusion. You know that, right?”
“Eh, what do they know?”
“About cognition and human nature and shit like that? Probably a fair amount.”
He grins. “It was a joke. Relax, I got it handled.”
“Why do those sound like famous last words?”
“Because they usually are.”
“Don’t say stuff like that… seriously, don’t say stuff like that.”
“Trust me.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really, no.”
“Greeeeaaaat,” I mutter.
We park down the alley from one of the most expensive buildings around. It’s about the same age as Grant’s skyscraper, and just as luxurious.
The Billionaire's Passion Page 3