“By ‘recover,’ ” Joe said, “you mean steal it back.”
“Yes,” Kate said.
“Will I be in any physical jeopardy?”
Nick shook his head. “You won’t be part of the actual recovery effort. You will be a safe distance away, handling the technical side of things.”
“What happens to Carter Grove if you pull this off?”
“Legally? Nothing.” Nick said. “However, since the item in question was stolen to begin with, he can’t report the theft to the police or collect any insurance on it. So in a cosmic sense, he’s getting royally screwed.”
Joe liked that idea. What he liked even more was that he’d be paid a lot of money to see it happen. He yanked the Geek Squad badge off his belt, pulled the clip-on tie from his collar, and tossed both onto the floor.
“Pop the cork on that Cristal, and let’s get to it,” Joe said.
Artificial sunshine created by movie lights bathed the cheery kitchen of a Santa Clarita tract house that was serving as the location for a TV commercial. Two freckle-faced children, nine-year-old Missy and eleven-year-old Tommy, sat at the cottage table eating cereal from colorful bowls that perfectly complemented the placemats, the walls, the cupboards, and even the flowered apron their youthful mother was wearing.
“Bran flakes for breakfast again?” whined Missy, listlessly poking at her cereal with her spoon.
Tommy pushed his bowl away. “Why can’t we have something fun to eat?”
“Because that usually means a bowl of sugar,” their mother said.
“But it tastes good,” Missy said.
Mom wagged a finger at her daughter. “That doesn’t mean it’s good for you.”
That’s when an enormous jovial-looking pancake with arms and legs and a pat of melting butter on its head bounded into the kitchen carrying two platters stacked high with hotcakes.
“A healthy breakfast doesn’t have to be bland and boring anymore. Not if you’re serving Percy Pancakes,” the pancake said.
“We love pancakes!” Missy exclaimed.
The giant pancake set the platters down and shook his head. “I’m sorry, everyone, but this just isn’t working for me.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said the mother.
“CUT!” yelled the director.
A bell rang, and the fifty members of the film crew relaxed. The soundman lowered the boom mike he’d been holding up over the giant pancake’s head, and a makeup woman came out to touch up the mother’s face.
Boyd Capwell was the actor in the pancake costume, and he knew that the commercial was his shot at joining the pantheon of legendary food characters such as the Pillsbury Doughboy, Mr. Peanut, the Kool-Aid Man, Mayor McCheese, Charlie the Tuna, Mrs. Butterworth, and the California Raisins. It could lead to a steady, lucrative gig, something Boyd had been chasing for twenty years as an itinerant, unknown actor. But he was an artist above all else and had to be true to his muse. And his muse had issues with the scene.
The director was Stan Deakins, a fifty-two-year-old veteran of the commercial business who preferred working with inanimate objects, like cars and cheeseburgers, specifically to avoid aggravation like this. He rose from his chair behind the camera and approached Boyd. “What’s the problem?”
“A complete stranger—a giant pancake, no less—has just appeared in their home,” Boyd said. “Why isn’t anyone reacting to this? Wouldn’t they be screaming in terror?”
“They love pancakes,” Stan said.
“What would they do if a fried chicken leg walked in?”
“I’m not sure a chicken leg could walk in,” said the script supervisor, a lady who wore three layers of shirts and sucked on a pencil as if it were a pacifier. “I suppose it could hop.”
Stan looked over his shoulder at her. “Let me handle this.” He turned back to Boyd. “The family knows you. You’re not just another pancake off the street. You’re a celebrity pancake, the Jay Leno of breakfast foods. Would anyone throw Leno out of their house?”
“Okay, assuming you’re right, I’m a pancake asking this family to eat me. Am I suicidal or simply filled with self-loathing?”
“Take your pick,” Stan said. “Whatever will get you through the scene.”
Boyd thought for a moment. “Got it. I’m ready to go.”
“Glad to hear it.” Stan settled back into his seat. “Okay, let’s do a pickup from Missy’s line.”
Boyd went back to his mark at the table. The actress playing the mother got back into her position. The makeup lady returned to her spot. The soundman positioned the boom microphone over the actors. An assistant director stood in front of the camera and held the electronic clapboard in front of the lens.
“Scene one, take fifteen,” the AD said, clapping the sticks.
“Action!” Stan yelled.
“We love pancakes!” Missy said.
The mother turned to Boyd. “But growing children need vitamins and minerals.”
“I’m loaded with fiber and eight essential vitamins,” Boyd said. “With our six great flavors, you get incredible taste and no more problems with regularity.”
“You’re a pancake for the whole family,” the mother said.
Boyd dropped to his knees and took the mother’s hands, startling the actress. “Please, you’ve got to serve me to the kids. Being eaten is the only thing that gives my life any meaning. Without it, I’m nothing, just flour and buttermilk without a soul.”
Stan whispered to the script supervisor, “What the hell is he saying? Is that in the script?”
The script supervisor shook her head. Stan groaned.
“And once I’m gone, be sure to try our new gluten-free recipe,” Boyd said to the now visibly confused actress. “It’s every bit as good as our classic mix.”
Stan closed his eyes and massaged his brow. “CUT!”
Boyd got to his feet and turned to the director. “That felt good to me. It resonated with emotional legitimacy.”
Stan looked up at Boyd with a pained expression. “You’re a pancake.”
“Thank you,” Boyd said, giving Stan a slight bow of gratitude. “If you believe that, then I have succeeded. Shall we do it again?”
“No way in hell,” Stan said. “You’re history. Turn in your butter patty and pancake suit. I’m shooting the scene with a computer-generated pancake in postproduction.”
Boyd was on his way to the wardrobe truck when he saw Kate O’Hare leaning against the side of a storage locker. He hadn’t seen Kate in months, not since he’d helped her, Nick, and the mysterious private security agency they worked for find a fugitive and recover half a billion dollars in stolen money. Boyd didn’t know who Kate and Nick really were, but they’d given him a juicy role to play and paid in cash, and that’s what mattered to him.
“Those people have no artistic integrity,” Boyd said, pointing at the house he’d just left.
“They didn’t appreciate your psychologically tortured pancake,” Kate said.
She’d never had a conversation with someone in a pancake suit before. But even in that costume, Boyd somehow managed to maintain his dignity.
“You saw my performance?”
She nodded. “The costumers were watching it on monitors in the wardrobe truck. I peeked while I was waiting for you.”
“Then you know that my portrayal was dead-on. He breaks into homes and asks children to eat him. He’s obviously not a well-adjusted pancake.”
“Look at the bright side, Boyd. Now you’re available for another job. One that pays a lot more than this and doesn’t require you to wear a hat of melting butter.”
“What’s the role?”
“Star of a reality TV show shot on location in Palm Beach, Florida.”
“I’m in.”
“Wait a minute. You don’t know what we’re really going to be doing.” She looked around. There was no one close enough to eavesdrop, but she lowered her voice to a whisper anyway. “We’re stealing back a stolen object from so
meone and returning it to its rightful owner.”
“A noble cause and a great part. What more does an actor need to know?”
“If we’re caught, we could be killed, or if we’re really lucky, sent to prison for ten years.”
Boyd waved off Kate’s concern. “It’s still better than playing a pancake for philistines.”
• • •
Carter Grove was living in a forty-nine-million-dollar, twenty-three-thousand-square-foot beachfront estate in Palm Beach. The mansion had taken him three years to build and an additional two years to furnish. The house had a massive, domed rotunda in its center and twin two-story limestone-clad wings branching out on either side. It even had gargoyles carved in stone perched in the eaves.
“Carter modeled his place after Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte, Louis XIV’s inspiration for the Palace of Versailles,” Nick said, standing with Kate on the beach in front of the house. “That should tell you something about Carter’s delusions of grandeur.”
“The only thing missing is a moat.”
“Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte was built starting in 1658 by Nicolas Fouquet, Louis XIV’s state treasurer,” Nick said. “In 1661, Fouquet invited his boss, Louis, over for a big housewarming party. The king took one look at the opulent castle and was so jealous, he confiscated it and threw Fouquet in prison for life. Maybe that’s why Carter waited until he left the White House to build this.”
Kate thought the house looked as out of place on the white sand beach as a tuna casserole at the Last Supper. But Nick fit right in with the beach scene. He wore Ray-Bans, a Tommy Bahama silk shirt, khaki shorts, and leather flip-flops. Kate was dressed in an H&M tank top, Gap boyfriend shorts, and Nike running shoes. It was a warm and sunny morning, two days after they’d recruited Joe Morey and Boyd Capwell for the con. They had only six more days until the Chinese arrived in D.C. to get their rooster back.
“I’ve done the research,” Kate said. “Carter has a Gant Supermax Security system, the gold standard in security. Surveillance cameras watch every square inch of the property, inside and out. Infrared beams crisscross the rooms in constantly changing patterns that, if broken by anything larger than a dust particle, immediately set off the alarms. Even if you can get past all that, they have temperature sensors that can pick up an intruder’s body heat.”
“No problem.”
“A dozen armed BlackRhino operatives patrol the property at all times. Every one of them is a trained killer. They’re pros, with vast resources. They aren’t going to take us at face value or be fooled by smooth talk. They are going to do background checks and verify everything we say.”
“Relax,” Nick said. “My data forger in Hong Kong has built solid fake identities for us in every bank, government, law enforcement, and search engine database that BlackRhino is likely to check. They’ll hold up, at least long enough for us to get the rooster.”
They walked the length of the property to a short boardwalk that led to the cul-de-sac where Kate had parked their rented Escalade.
At the end of the cul-de-sac, and next door to Carter Grove’s estate, was a weedy construction site where work on a spec home had stopped early in the framing stage. An unmarked panel van was parked beside the office trailer that remained on the lot.
If Kate and Nick had walked into the trailer, they would have found Joe Morey inside, setting up computers, flat-screen monitors, and other equipment. But they ignored the trailer and got into the Escalade.
Kate turned to Nick in the passenger seat. “This entire operation falls apart if Carter says no.”
“He won’t say no,” Nick said. “Nobody builds a house like that unless they crave attention. And we’re going to give it to him in a big way.”
• • •
Carter Grove wasn’t a king, but he was a kingmaker. He was on the phone, talking to Muktar Diriye Abdullahi, the brutal dictator of a small African nation. Botan Omar Wehliye, the hotheaded, idealistic rebel leader who was trying to topple the regime, was simultaneously on a different line with Carter. Both men wanted to hire BlackRhino to bolster their forces with mercenaries, military advisers, and cutting-edge weapons.
“You may be fighting for your country’s ethnic heritage and religious values, Muktar, but that means nothing to me,” Carter said. “But when you overthrew the government twenty years ago, you nationalized the gold mines. That means something to me. You want us in your fight? It will cost you fifty million now and five percent of your annual mining profits for as long as your regime remains in power. Think about that for a minute, I’ve got another call I need to take.”
Carter put Muktar on hold and switched over to the line with the rebel leader.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Botan. I don’t care about the atrocities your people have suffered or the righteousness of your cause. You don’t have any cash to pay me. But if you overthrow the government, you’re going to control the gold mines. We want an irrevocable fifty-year lease on Frobe Valley. And don’t think you can say yes now and renege on the deal later, because we’ll assassinate your entire family and mutilate the corpses. That’s a promise. What do you say?”
Fifteen minutes later, Carter strolled out of his office onto a balcony overlooking the Atlantic. He was sixty-two years old, round-faced and round-cheeked, with a thin mustache and beard that he maintained to create the illusion of a chin. He was unmarried but had no shortage of young women willing to party with him.
Veronica Dell, Carter’s thirty-seven-year-old personal assistant, knocked and entered his office. She had a graduate degree in economics from Yale, a black belt in taekwondo, and the sexiest British accent Carter had ever heard, even though he knew it was fake. She’d been born and raised in Phoenix.
“How did the negotiations go?” she asked.
Carter left the balcony and returned to his office. “Perfectly.”
“Which side are we supporting?”
“Both,” he said.
“So we win either way.”
“That’s my idea of good business. Any calls?”
She nodded. “The CEO of AeroSystem. He’s sniffing around to see if you’re interested in buying some drones. Now that the war effort in Afghanistan is winding down, he’s overstocked.”
He liked the way Veronica said “overstocked.” “I didn’t catch that. What did he say he was again?”
“Overstocked.”
Carter smiled. It was like having a younger, sexier Mary Poppins working for him. He wondered if she’d sing “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” if he asked her to.
“Anything else?”
“Marissa Clopp at Emerald Coast Realty called,” Veronica said. Marissa was the Realtor who’d sold Carter the house he’d demolished to build this one. “She’s got two producers in her office from the TV show The Most Spectacular Homes on Earth. They’d like to feature your house in an episode.”
Carter knew the show. It was on Home & Style Television. He’d watched it several times and didn’t think that any of the houses they’d featured so far came close to matching his in splendor, grandeur, or artistic vision.
“What are the names of the producers?”
“Jim Rockford and Lucy Carmichael.”
Carter thought about it. His privacy was important to him. But he also imagined the envy that his friends and enemies in Washington would feel when they saw how he lived. The fact that his house was on a show called The Most Spectacular Homes on Earth would say it all.
“Have the New York office check them out. In the meantime, get the president of Home & Style Television on the phone for me.”
The Palm Gardens office complex was a sprawling five-story building that wrapped around a man-made lake in a formerly industrial area of Santa Monica, California. The building was home to several cable TV channels, advertising agencies, and production companies. The most recent tenant was Rififi Studios, which occupied a cramped three-hundred-square-foot space above the entrance to the parking garage and below the headquar
ters of Home & Style Television.
The phone lines that served HSTV passed through one of Rififi’s walls. A hole had been cut through the wall, and a MacBook was wired into the bundle of phone lines. The MacBook was programmed to intercept any call from a Florida area code and redirect it to the phone in Rififi’s office. Boyd Capwell was by himself in the office playing solitaire when the phone finally rang for the first time.
“Home & Style Television, how may I direct your call?” Capwell said.
“This is Carter Grove’s office calling for Warren Kane.”
It was a woman speaking with the worst British accent Boyd had ever heard. Her dialect coach must have had a terrible speech impediment.
“One moment, please,” Boyd said. “I’ll transfer you to his office.” He put her on hold, then resumed the call with a voice that had dropped an octave. “Warren Kane’s office. Is Mr. Grove ready to speak to Mr. Kane?”
“He is.”
There was a click, and after a good thirty seconds had passed Carter Grove came on the line.
“Hey there, Warren. Glad you were available to talk. Are you familiar with who I am?”
“Of course I am, Mr. Grove. We just sent two field producers out to Palm Beach to knock on your door. We can’t continue calling our show The Most Spectacular Homes on Earth if we don’t feature your house.”
“I think you’re right, and that’s why I’m willing to consider letting cameras into my home for the first time. But I have some conditions.”
“Name them.”
“I want full editorial control over the episode and final cut. Not just the editing, but the narration and music as well. Nothing goes on the air that I haven’t approved first. I also want all the unused footage destroyed.”
“You’ve got a deal.”
“Really? I was expecting an argument and an impassioned speech about journalistic integrity, objectivity, and all of that crap.”
Boyd gave a hearty laugh. “We aren’t 60 Minutes, Mr. Grove. We’re an aspirational network offering viewers a vision of a better life through home ownership and improvement. Or, to put it another way, we broadcast property porn designed to sell paint, hardware, appliances, and furniture. Our goal here is to make your house look even more spectacular than it already is.”
The Chase Page 5