Worth the Trip

by Penny McCall

  Myra chuckled softly. “It was quite a surprise, too. And inconvenient, to say the least.”

  “The publicity. It wasn’t my favorite part of the writing experience,” Norah said. Not to mention it had caused her trouble, being recognized when she and Trip had been trying to stay under the radar while they followed Myra’s clues. And then there was Hollie Roget, although she’d have been a nuisance in any case, since she wanted Raymond Kline, for reasons that still escaped Norah. But at least Hollie had been honest, mostly, about her feelings.

  “I never expected to like you so much, either,” Myra said. “I didn’t think we’d become friends—”

  “We were never friends, Myra. You don’t know what that means.”

  “You haven’t been in love, Norah, really in love. Not like that.”

  Norah didn’t reply. She didn’t even want to think about how wrong that statement was. Then again, even though she loved Trip desperately, she couldn’t do desperate things to keep him. It would change who she was, and she liked who she was, despite everything she’d been through in the last few days.

  “We can get the loot together, just you and I,” Myra was saying. “We’ll split it fifty-fifty.”

  “What about Bobby? My brother.”

  “Bobby is my son. My responsibility.”

  “What if I said my father is mine?”

  “Then I’d call you a fool.”

  Norah snorted out a laugh. “You’d have been right about that until yesterday.” She tried to push through the gate.

  Myra held her off. “Norah, please. We can—”

  “Get out of my way, Myra.”

  She held on a second or two longer, then let go of the bars, backing off slowly.

  “And don’t even think about following me.”

  “I could go inside and wake your father.”

  “You don’t even have to go inside, Myra, just touch the front door and the alarm will go off. But it won’t do either of you any good. It’s too late for you to stop me now.”

  “You can still change your mind. If anyone can talk you out of going, it’s Lucius.”

  “If that were true, I’d be in my bed sleeping.” She hiked her laptop case and purse up on her shoulder and pushed through the gate.

  She didn’t look back. Myra would take whatever action she had to take, just like Norah was doing what she had to do. And just like her father would do when he found out that she’d double-crossed him.

  BY MIDNIGHT, TRIP WAS BREAKING INTO THE MUSEUM of Westward Expansion in St. Louis. The Gateway Arch soared overhead, its stainless steel surface shining dully in the city lights. The Mississippi River flowed just yards away, but Trip didn’t hear the gentle lapping of the current against the St. Louis levee. He was completely focused on the task at hand, he tried to tell himself, not thinking about anything, or anyone, else. Especially Norah.

  He’d only stayed at her house long enough to gather his things together, along with the last clue from the Detroit Zoo. Norah hadn’t even looked at him when he went out the front door. She hadn’t watched him out the window. He knew, he’d checked. And he was ashamed of himself for it. Now.

  At first the shame had just made him angrier. It was about three hundred miles from Chicago to St. Louis, and it had taken Trip that long to cool down and think rationally . . . Okay, somewhat rationally. He wasn’t seeing the world through a red haze any more, or resisting the urge to drive his car into the other drivers whose only crime was being on the same road as him. He didn’t want to go back and yell at Lucius, either; he intended to tie up this loose end then head back to Chicago to close his case.

  And he would be going back. As soon as he could look at Norah MacArthur without the urge to wrap his hands around her neck.

  The alarm system presented little problem for him. The museum didn’t hold items of great value, no jewels or priceless works of art. Some of the items on exhibit, Indian peace medals struck in silver, cowboy paraphernalia, even some of the items carried by settlers heading west in Conestoga wagons, would fetch decent prices from collectors, but only for their historical value. The most precious contents of the museum were probably unknown even to its curators. That was if Puff had sent Myra there fifteen years earlier. Trip figured he had a fifty-fifty chance of finding something from the Gold Coast Robbery hidden there.

  He took his time in the museum, not bothering with a map, just covering the semicircular space methodically. He came across the Lewis and Clark exhibition first, a series of thirty-three murals spread around the outermost wall of the museum. Each mural consisted of a photo of some natural landscape that related to the expedition, with an excerpt from the journals kept by William Clark during their trek, ranging in time from 1804 to 1806.

  Trip decided almost immediately that the murals provided no place to hide even a small cache of loot from the robbery. He perused the entire exhibit, though. Better to be thorough.

  The museum also boasted a full-size Conestoga wagon. It was the only other potential hiding place, so Trip made his way through the silent, empty museum, ignored the barriers around the wagon, and climbed on board. It took him about an hour to go over it from top to bottom.

  He was lying underneath it, searching for likely cracks in the planking, when someone said, “Come out from under the wagon,” in a tone that would have had more impact if the voice of the speaker hadn’t cracked.

  Trip almost grinned as he crawled out and got to his feet, not surprised to be confronted by a museum guard who was little more than a kid. A kid holding him at gunpoint.

  “Step away from the exhibit, sir,” the kid said, sounding steadier when Trip continued to do as instructed, making his way out of the exhibit with his hands raised about shoulder level.

  “I’m not trying to steal anything, honest,” he told the kid, stopping about ten feet in front of him.

  “Sure, whatever you say, but I have to detain you anyway.”

  Trip shrugged. “Okay. Do I get a phone call?”

  “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “I’m with the FBI, Jerry,” Trip said, reading off the kid’s name badge. “I’m going to call my handler.”

  “No, you’re not, sir.”

  Trip lowered his right hand anyway.

  Jerry didn’t know what to do, faced with an intruder who claimed to be a federal agent—claimed being the operative word, and as Trip saw the kid come to that conclusion, that it was easy to make assertions, he said, “Let me get my ID out,” and reached for his back pocket as if to retrieve his badge from his wallet.

  As soon as Jerry dropped his eyes, Trip struck out with his arm and knocked the gun sideways. It went off, the shot going well wide. By then, Trip had Jerry disarmed. He backed off, eyes wide, arms lifting as Trip’s had been.

  “Relax, I’m not going to shoot you.”

  “You’re not?”

  “I need you to call the head guy, get him down here.”

  “The curator? What for . . . Shit,” Jerry said, his eyes focused about ten feet to Trip’s left. “Dude, I shot a hole in the wagon. Schiffer’s gonna be pissed.”

  Trip blew out a breath, laughing a little. “Tell everyone it was damaged in an Indian attack.”

  “You think that will fly?”

  “I’d believe it, and it’s better than reporting your gun went off when you were trying to shoot a federal agent.”

  “But, like, you broke in here.” Jerry started walking, heading toward the offices. “How was I supposed to know you were a fed?”

  “Nobody would have cared once they took my ID off my cold, lifeless body.”

  Jerry’s steps faltered, his face going white. “I was just doing my job, man.”

  “Sure, whatever you say. Could you call Schiffer, get him down here?”

  Jerry took out his phone, dialed a number, but he was shaking his head. “Schiffer isn’t going to like this.”

  Too bad, Trip thought, sitting where Jerry indicated. In less than sixty minutes,
Jared Schiffer arrived, looking like he’d just gotten out of bed and severely pissed, just as Jerry had predicted.

  “What the hell is going on?” he demanded, his gaze going from Jerry, who sidled back against the wall, to Trip, who stayed in his seat.

  Trip did, however, hold out his cell. “My handler wants to talk to you.”

  Schiffer narrowed his eyes, glared at Trip a few seconds, then took the phone. Trip had to give the man credit; he didn’t let Mike Kovaleski intimidate him.

  “What I want to know,” Schiffer said after he’d listened a half a minute or so, “is why this couldn’t have been handled during the hours of normal operation, or, at the very least, without your man breaking in.”

  Trip could hear Mike yelling at the curator. He couldn’t make out the words, but Schiffer could, which was all that mattered. He said, “You have rounds” to Jerry, then handed Trip his phone back and said, “Follow me.”

  “What did you yell at him?” Trip said into the phone, getting to his feet and following Schiffer through the door he unlocked.

  “The usual threats,” Mike said in his usual tone of voice, which sounded like he was chewing gravel. “I assume you’re closing in on the loot.”

  “I’m following a lead,” he said shortly, his eyes on Schiffer, who was listening unashamedly. “I’ll call you in a day or two, give you a progress report.” Once he found out what Norah and Lucius were up to.

  “Glad to hear there’s progress,” Mike said. “There is progress, right?”

  “Gotta go,” Trip said, and hung up, but not before he heard Mike bellow out a laugh. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t be expecting a break in the case sometime soon. Mike might appreciate quick wits, but he also expected quick results.

  “Your handler said you would fill me in,” Schiffer said as he settled behind his desk, gesturing to a chair in front of it.

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Schiffer sighed. “You dragged me out of bed, and I’m not even getting an explanation?”

  Trip glanced around the office, which was immaculate. The desk was completely barren except for a blotter. There was no dust, and the carpet bore vacuum marks. Having the FBI drop in was probably the most exciting thing that had happened to Jared Schiffer in his entire life. Too bad Trip couldn’t tell him why he was there; having a part, even peripherally, in the Gold Coast Robbery would have given the man conversational fodder for the rest of his life. Then again, depending on the answer to his next question, Trip might have no choice but to clue Schiffer in.

  “I need to know if you’ve ever found anything hidden in the museum, specifically the Lewis and Clark exhibit or the Conestoga wagon.”

  The curator stared at him for a couple of seconds, then took out a set of keys and unlocked his bottom right file drawer. He pulled out a manila folder and placed it on his otherwise empty desktop, maneuvering it just so on the pristine blotter.

  “We were checking the Conestoga for dry rot a couple of years ago, and we came across this,” he finally said. He flipped open the file and removed a note covered in plastic, sliding it across the desk.

  Trip reached for it, read the single word, and swore under his breath. If he’d made the choice to come here with Norah, if they’d found this together, she’d have had no choice but to side with him. Although, if he’d come here with Norah, Puff would have had time to break into her house, retrieve whatever he’d hidden, and they’d both be out of luck. Puff and the loot would be long gone.

  The saying Everything happens the way it’s supposed to ran through his mind. He thought that was bullshit. If everything happened the way it was supposed to, he’d have closed his case and he’d be . . . in Washington, without Norah. But at least he’d never have discovered her capacity for betrayal.

  He got to his feet, the note, unnoticed, crumpled in his hand.

  “Wait,” Schiffer said, jumping out of his chair. “At least tell me what it means, Gotcha.”

  “It means I was right all along,” Trip said. “I just found out too late for it to make a difference.”

  chapter 26

  BY FIVE A.M., TRIP WAS ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF Chicago, calm for real this time. His head was full of questions for Norah, the questions he should have asked her in the first place, instead of losing his temper. But dammit, she’d taken her father’s side, after all they’d been through together. Or so he’d believed. Because he’d been filtering everything she said through his emotions.

  She’d been counting on that. But she didn’t have a clue there was more than anger going on inside him. He could at least be thankful for that. Norah MacArthur had turned out to be a hell of a con artist. Her father’s daughter. Trip had been right about that much. He could only imagine what she could have goaded him into doing if she knew . . .

  He took a mental step back, putting himself into the operation again. Norah had made her choice, and it was the right choice, even if it was for the wrong reward. He didn’t know what pissed him off more, that she’d been strong enough to do what they both knew had to be done, or that he was mooning over a woman who’d kicked him out of her life. But then . . .

  He scrubbed a hand back through his hair, thinking Fuck it, I’m in love with her. And yeah, that pissed him off the most. He wasn’t giving up his job, and a man in his position had no business getting involved with anyone that way. Love was a weakness, he’d always believed. But he didn’t feel weak. Running away was weak.

  He pulled up to the curb in front of Norah’s house just as dawn was breaking. He angled out of the black Mustang GT, made his way to her front door, and knocked. No answer. He decided to pick the lock, but when he put his hand on the knob it turned, so he stepped inside and punched the code into the keypad.

  “So you’re back.”

  Trip spun around and there was Lucius, sitting in the parlor sipping coffee laced, Trip suspected, with the whiskey sitting in the decanter at his elbow.

  “Where’s Norah?”

  “Gone,” Lucius said. “She took off with the key to the loot.”

  Trip shook his head a little, then replayed that last comment. Even when he repeated it, he still didn’t believe it. “She’s gone?”

  “Aye. Gone. She conned the secret to the loot out of me and absconded with it. I’d be proud of her if I didn’t feel like such a bloody fool.”

  Trip sat down on the horsehair sofa, still trying to wrap his mind around it. “Did she go to the police?”

  “Jesus, are you trying to kill me? Isn’t it bad enough that she played me, her own father? Now you’re wanting me to think she’s gone to the cops, too?”

  “Well, where the hell do you think she’s gone?”

  “Some country that has no extradition agreement with the United States.”

  “What time did she leave?”

  “Middle of the night’s as close as I can approximate it.”

  “And the treasure is . . .”

  Lucius sat up, looked over at him for the first time. “There’s no way she’s gotten the loot yet,” he said, not looking all that cheered by the news.

  Trip had been so sure he’d misread Norah, that she’d had a good reason for making him leave. Now he found himself having to make a decision between trusting her and working with her father to track her down.

  But either way it all circled back to the loot. “So tell me where it is and we’ll go get it,” he said to Lucius, “hopefully before Norah does.”

  “That’s the problem, boyo, she’s got the list.”

  “List?”

  “Aye, list. And the passwords.”

  Passwords, that didn’t sound good. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you memorized the passwords.”

  “I knew them fifteen years ago, but now?” He shook his head.

  “In that case,” Trip said, getting to his feet, “you’ll only slow me down.”

  TRIP’S PHONE RANG WHEN HE WAS SITTING IN AN Internet café, south of Chicago. He’d gone south because, he’d reasoned, going north di
dn’t make any sense, and Norah was a sensible woman. An infuriating woman, but sensible, and north meant she’d be hampered by Lake Michigan and Lake Superior. Unless she was headed for Canada. Or west. There wasn’t a whole lot west, and small towns meant she’d stand out, so he’d ruled out west. Canada, however, had real possibilities. Her passport would be recorded when she crossed the border, but once she was out of the country his resources would be severely limited.

  Of course, that only mattered if she had the loot. He was betting she didn’t—not yet anyway—and he was betting that wherever Lucius stashed it was south of Chicago. His goal, he thought as he picked up his still-ringing phone, was to find Norah.

  “Hello?”

  “Trip?”

  He froze, even the breath backing up in his lungs, and when he didn’t respond she said, “It’s Norah.”

  “I know,” he said. Not that her name had been the first thing that popped into his mind. In all fairness nothing had popped into his mind; he’d had to get through the instant rush of emotion first. But the emotion had been anger, and the thoughts that had come along with it hadn’t been pretty.

  “I’d like to explain—”

  “Explain what?”

  “I was just at your house, you weren’t there.”

  “I had to leave—”

  “After you stole fifty million dollars from your father.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Con the con artist? Sure you did. You conned me, you conned your long-lost brother. You played us all, sweetheart.”

  “If you would let me finish a sentence—”

  “I’ll be happy to, but not over the phone.”

  “Fine, I’ll meet you.”

  “Right,” Trip sneered, “I’m going to fall for that.”

  “Then you pick the time and place,” she said, sounding exasperated.

  “I plan to. When and where you least expect it.”

  Norah digested that for a second. “You’re going to track me down, put out one of those . . .”

  “APBs,” Trip supplied. “And no. No APB. This is between you and me. Darlin’.”