by Jasmin Quinn
Then she stole up the massive curved stairway to the second floor. She didn’t hesitate at the top. She went directly to Randall Scott’s bedroom. Again, she allowed herself a moment to drink in the luxury. Enormous king-sized bed, an elegant cobalt blue silk duvet, more superb original art. The man had fantastic taste. She tore her eyes from a marble Roman bust on top of a dresser and scanned the walls zeroing in on a large oil painting, its frame slightly boxier than the rest. She slipped it off the wall. The safe was there. Tucking her flashlight between her teeth, she entered the first 6-digit code. Nothing. Then the second. Still nothing. What the fuck? How could that not work? Unless he changed the fucking code. She entered the third code. The one Michael had used in Scott’s office. Still nothing.
Her heart started to pound, and she had to take a step back from the safe to centre herself. She closed her eyes and pictured the codes in her mind. What if she misread or transposed a number? But which one? The 9 she thought. Try it as a six. She stepped up, entering the second code, this time replacing the 9 with a 6 and the safe clicked open. She felt a renewed ripple of adrenaline at her success.
The safe had papers in it; mostly legal and insurance papers. A bundle of old hand-written letters. Some cash; she drew it out and flipped through it, a lot of money, she thought as she bit her bottom lip. Then she sighed and replaced everything, in the original order she found it. She closed the safe reluctantly, resetting the code and replacing the painting on the wall. It was a man’s safe. No jewelry in there. Randall Scott must lead a solitary life. His home was a replica of hers. Spare, elegant, lavish, and paid for by the proceeds of criminal activities. Isabelle’s were less nefarious though. She stole from the rich and gave to the poor, namely her.
She refocused her thoughts, did a quick efficient search of the room, checking between the mattress, rifling through a handful of books on the bedside table, feeling through his clothing – in his closet and his dresser drawers. Then she withdrew from the room, made her way lightly down the stair case, and entered Scott’s office. She hoped this was her last stop. The only other place the book could possibly be was downstairs in the wine cellar. But that was unlikely. A book like this, the owner would want to keep it close and accessible.
She glanced at her watch, 10:28 – a little behind schedule, too long in the bedroom. But nothing to worry about. She shone her little flashlight around the space. It was another beautiful room and Isabelle found herself wishing she lived here. Wished she owned this house and all its beauty. She was awed by the coved ceilings, the intricate millwork on the casing and baseboard, the moldings. The furnishings were masculine, a comfortable sitting area in front of a massive oak deck. A bar with crystal cut glasses, and no doubt, very fine choices of liquor, and a large fireplace, marble mantle, with two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves straddling either side, books and tasteful trinkets, collectables. Roman, renaissance and realism blended together brilliantly.
Enough lollygagging, she admonished herself. She scanned the walls, the pictures. Saw the one a little out of alignment. An original Gustave Courbet. She smiled. Randall Scott had a dry sense of humour. The French artist had spent a stint of time under lock and key. This time the picture frame had a hidden hinge, she didn’t need to lift it from the wall. And there was the safe. She punched in the last 6-digit code and the safe opened with a little buzz. She took a deep breath, shrugging the tension from her shoulders before reaching inside and pulling out the contents. More in here, she noted as she sorted. Cash, banking documents, uncut diamonds in a bag. And the fucking green covered book!
She was almost in awe – it was as though she’d found the ancient text that would lead her to the holy grail. She pulled it out, flipping through the pages. Lots of names, notations, dates and times – invaluable to the right buyer. But Rusya Savisin was very specific; he wanted only the last three pages at the back of the book. She flipped to the back of the journal and there were the names. Not three but four pages; obviously some recent activity.
She unzipped her bag and pulled the camera out, flattening the book on the desk and drawing a paperweight to one side to keep the pages from shifting upward. Flashlight between teeth again, she shone the pinpoint of light on each page and clicked the camera. Twice for each page. Eight times in total. She flipped through the photos, making sure they were clear and readable, then took two more pictures of the 3rd page as she had cut the bottom off.
Easy. She put the phone back in her waist belt, replaced the paper weight, making sure it was precisely how she found it, then closed the book and locked it back in the safe, next to the bag of uncut diamonds, which made her fingers itch uncontrollably. As the safe clicked shut, she gave herself a gold star for her self-restraint. Michael would be proud of her. She quickly dashed away the thought as a lump grew in her throat. She wasn’t out of here yet. Lots of time for self-pity when she was on the plane. She covered the safe with the Courbet, touched her hand to the frame as she peered at the picture. Wished she could come back for it. She looked at her watch – 10:39pm. Not bad.
She took a last look around, memorizing the details of the office. Thinking wistfully that she would have liked to meet the man who made his home here. They’d have a lot to talk about. Then her eyes lighted on a small sculpture on one of the bookshelves, on a lower shelf, nestled into a corner. She walked over to it and crouched down, shining her light on it. She felt lightheaded as her pulse picked up speed. It was a fucking miniature bronze cast of Degas’ Little Dancer.
She shoved the flashlight between her teeth and reached for it, picking it up with shaking hands. There were nine of these in the world. Five were in museums, four were in private collections. The last one put up for auction sold for $23 million. And she was holding one in her hands, if it was genuine, which to her practiced eye seemed to be the case. It was on a shelf, practically discarded, definitely disregarded. It should be in a case, under lock and key, and alarmed. She ran her fingers down it, touching it, her blood heating up as she stroked it.
Emotions thudded through Isabelle, elation, awe, satisfaction. She felt like an archeologist on a dig, making a profound discovery. It was her discovery. This precious item. Worth millions, but that was irrelevant. If it were hers, she would never let it go. It wouldn’t be sitting unprotected on a bookshelf. It would become part of her collection – the centerpiece – her pride and joy.
The Little Dancer pulled at her – a magnet, drawing her to it. She didn’t think she could leave without it, but she shouldn’t leave with it. The directions were not to pick up anything, nothing. But fuck, Scott didn’t even know what he had. And maybe it was just a replica, but she so badly wanted to know. She held it so gently, caressing it as she turned it in her hands. So delicate, so perfect.
Then she froze as a scraping at the front door drew her attention. Footsteps and male voices, entering the foyer. Fuck Anto and his intel. Asshole probably set her up deliberately. She clicked off her flashlight and abruptly stood up. Her heart was hammering in her chest and she felt sweat break out across her forehead. Yes, the adrenaline was spiking, but this was the bad kind of adrenaline – the fight or flight kind. This was a first for her – having someone walk in on her while she was on the job. That’s why she didn’t do a fucking job on a day’s notice. That’s why she didn’t trust some asshole’s lousy information.
She took a deep breath and willed herself calm. She’d developed an exit plan should this happen, and she tried to get her panicked brain to process it.
Scan the room quickly, check for possible exit routes.
Only one, the French doors that she’d entered by.
Okay, where are the voices?
Still in the foyer.
How many?
Three, all men.
What are they doing?
Talking together. Not moving.
About what?
Doesn’t matter, does it?
Not yet. Lights?
Yes, the foyer lights are on.
Ca
n you get past them without being seen?
She sidled furtively to the French doors. The office was off the foyer and she couldn’t see the men, but she knew that if she stepped out the doors, she would be able to see them, which meant they would also see her.
Three options then: get out fast and run like hell, get caught, or hide until it was safe to come out. Option one and option two weren’t viable. Savisin’s instructions were very clear. Get in and get out, without Scott knowing. If Scott found out, she’d never make it out of the Vancouver alive. She scanned the office, sourness in her stomach threatening to bubble over into her mouth. She hated the fear, hated the feeling of it. She just wanted it to go away. The desk was her only option, it had a front panel so it obscured the bottom half of anyone sitting behind it. It was massive, and she’d easily fit under it.
The decision was made for her as a deep, mature voice, Randall Scott she assumed, invited the other two men into the study for drinks. She stepped away from the doors and glided silently across the room as the footsteps encroached on her safety. She dove under the desk, pulling the chair under with her and stilling herself as light flooded the room and the men entered. As Randall Scott did the host thing, inviting them to sit down, she shifted as they did, just slightly, to raise her knees. Her back was against one end, her toes against the other, her shoulders bowed, her neck and head forced down so that her chin almost rested on her chest.
Her tool bag was digging into her stomach, but she would have to endure it. She couldn’t risk the noise it would make to shift it. Then she almost gasped aloud as she looked down. She was clutching the Little Dancer in her hands. When she’d heard the noise, she forgot to replace it. Fuck! Would he notice it gone? Her mouth was suddenly so dry she could barely swallow. Please don’t notice, she kept repeating to herself as if she were Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. Scott’s officious voice took over the room, took over her thoughts as he approached the desk. But only to drop something on it as she heard a thud. She shook.
He said to one of his guests, “Scotch and soda, Tony?”
Tony’s voice was like a preacher’s, deep and powerful, with a slight undertone of righteousness attached to his phrasing. “With a little ice if you have it.”
“Of course.” Randall again. “Owen, a beer? Or have your tastes in drink elevated along with your dining establishments?”
“Still drinking beer, dad.” In contrast to Anthony, Scott’s son spoke in quiet simple tones. It belayed a strong presence but also a kindness. Isabelle shivered. How stupid she was being, thinking she could know these men by the timbre of their voices. She looked down at the Little Dancer. Perhaps there was still a way to save her ass, maybe not from these men, who would summon the police if they found her. But from Savisin. After all, she was a thief, and Scott’s home was worth stealing from. And she was holding the prize among prizes in her hand. She could claim she was after the sculpture. She would probably go to prison over it. She felt her brow crease. She would be lucky to go to prison. If they found the phone on her, with the pictures, Randall Scott might not call the cops. He might just have her killed.
Mercifully, the men’s conversation drew her away from the hideous path her thoughts were going down. “It was a happy coincidence, dad. I didn’t expect to run into you and Tony.”
“I wouldn’t have expected it either, Owen. I thought you preferred the dingy little shit holes on the lower east side.”
Owen chuckled, a warm and easy laugh. “You know how it is with me. Unpredictable. Never knowing if I’m coming or going.”
“Which is it, Owen? Are you coming or going?”
Owen didn’t answer. A little silence, then he said, “Where’s Kelsie? I haven’t heard from her for months.”
“Maybe you should drop by more often.”
“Kelsie’s fine,” Tony intoned.
“And you know this how?” Owen again, his tone cool.
“Kelsie got herself mixed-up in something she shouldn’t have. She needed to leave town fast. Tony helped her out.”
Isabelle filed the names away. Might come in handy. Who was Kelsie? The daughter, the sister? Sounded like. And this Tony, obviously involved. Maybe on Scott’s payroll.
“What kind of trouble is she in, dad?”
“It’s not something you need to know. You’ve cleaned yourself up again, but we both know that won’t last. I’m not talking to you about Kelsie – I’m not trusting you with that information.”
Owen was what? Not an alcoholic or she was sure Randall wouldn’t have offered him a beer. A drug addict? But he didn’t sound like one. He was articulate, he didn’t talk like he had been on the streets.
“Thanks for the support,” Owen said dryly.
“Are you staying the night?” Scott again.
“I thought I might if you have no objection. I promise I won’t steal the silver.”
Isabelle winced, but then also thought this could work to her advantage. If she got away, if she took the sculpture, if Randall Scott noticed, he would blame Owen. And he would let it go. Because he didn’t know its value and because he wouldn’t have his own kid arrested. Isabelle let out a small breath she’d been holding and shifted her neck slightly. She hoped she wouldn’t cramp up under the desk. That would be the end of everything if she did.
Their conversation wandered to the mundane. Baseball and cars. All men were the same. It didn’t matter how rich or poor, powerful or helpless they were. The conversation always landed on sports and cars. Would they just all fucking go to bed so she could leave? She looked at her watch. She was overdue by 10 minutes. Jack’s grunts would be five fucking miles away, chowing down on burgers now. Her stomach growled when her brain conjured the image of a cheeseburger. To her ears, it sounded like a nuclear bomb. She froze. Someone coughed loudly, like he was choking on his drink.
Did they hear or was the rumble in her belly concealed by the cough? She waited, but the conversation never faltered. A thud of something and a rustle. Owen. “I’m going to shower and put myself to bed. I’m sure you have catch-up to do since I interrupted your business meeting tonight. G’night all.”
“Nice meeting you, Owen.” From Tony. It lacked conviction and warmth.
Randall’s ‘good night’ was equally insincere.
Quiet then. So quiet that Isabelle held her breath. Were they waiting for Owen to be gone?
Then Randall. “Another, Tony?”
Isabelle groaned to herself as Tony readily agreed.
She heard Randall reseat himself. A clink of ice in a glass.
“What do you think, Randall? Awfully big coincidence.” Tony seemed more relaxed now. Clearly, he and Randall were well-acquainted, maybe even confidents by his casual and unguarded reference to Randall Scott’s son.
“Agreed. I don’t know what’s going on but Owen’s presence at the Huntsmen’s Club was not an accident.”
“Maybe trying to find Kelsie.”
“Owen doesn’t give two fucks about Kelsie. She’s been gone since September and this is the first time he’s shown up asking after her. I don’t buy it.”
Another clink of ice then glass meeting glass as someone set their tumbler down on the coffee table. “I should go, eh? We can postpone our meeting until tomorrow?” Definitely a question.
“My office. 12:30. I’ll get Emmaline to make reservations for lunch.”
Chatter again, rustling as they rose, soft footsteps fading toward the foyer. Small social niceties. Then the door closing. Isabelle held her breath. Don’t come back, don’t come back, don’t come back. But he did. Of course, he did! There were glasses to pick up, one last night cap. It was so quiet now. Noise couldn’t be explained. Isabelle felt her pulse pounding in her temples, but she didn’t dare take deep breaths to calm herself. She thought if she did, they would echo so loudly, they’d shake the pictures.
She tried for small breaths, tried to empty her mind. Michael’s face popped up. Fuck. Not now, my love. Then Jack’s. Then Anto’s and then th
e Grunts eating hamburgers. Panic. It was panic. She needed something to distract her. She looked down at her hand, at the Little Dancer. She stroked it with her fingers, feeling its curves and crevices. Tracing its smooth edges, running her thumb over the jagged edge of the base. Then the light disappeared and darkness dropped on her. She listened to Scott’s footsteps as he left the room, his tread on the stairs. Listened until he was out of her range of hearing. Then she looked at her watch. Thirty minutes overdue. Jack’s Grunts would be getting restless. Her cramped posture was screaming at her to uncurl, her mind was begging her to run. But she forced herself to wait ten more minutes, glancing down at her watch too often, the minutes ticking by painfully slow.
As her time limit passed, she shifted the sculpture into her left hand and pushed the office chair slowly back with her right. When it was out as far as she could push it, she unfolded and crawled on her hands and knees out from under the desk. She allowed herself a long stretch, drawing her breaths softly in and out, trying to breathe some life back into her muscles and bones. She stayed on her hands and knees as she crawled until she was clear of the chair, then used the edge of the desk to help leverage herself to her feet. She felt a light wave of dizziness and propped both hands on the desk. She needed to get the fuck out, find the Grunts and get some food and a serious strong drink. She should have made them wait down the street. Between the adrenaline high, the cortisol flowing through her and her hunger, she might not have the energy for a five-mile jog. And she couldn’t just head to the second meet spot. She’d have to go back to the first and make sure the assholes weren’t still sitting there waiting for
She straightened up. She’d worry about her energy levels later, once she was free and clear of Scott’s house. She lifted her hands off the desk and balanced herself on her feet. The dizziness passed. She was good to go. She replaced the office chair, pushing it under the desk, looked down at the Little Dancer for barely a second before slipping it into the front of her pants, tucking it securely in her panties. It made her look like she was having an alien baby. But it was temporary. Until she could hide it better.