by M. S. Parker
Once I looked appropriately fashionable, I dialed up the man I always went to when I needed a grifter partner. He wasn't really a friend, but I trusted him as much as I could trust another con.
The phone rang twice before a groggy voice answered. “God, it’s ten a.m. What do you want?”
“What’s the matter? Aren’t you happy to hear from an old friend?” I shot back sarcastically, falling into the familiar dynamic we'd built up over the past few years.
“What do you want, Bron?”
Blake McDougall knew me as Bron Du Murier, so I supposed I trusted him a bit more than I realized.
“Got a long con, a big one, and I need you to play a part.”
“What’s in it for me?” He sounded more interested now, and more awake.
“Ten percent cut.”
“Fifteen.”
“Eleven.”
“I’m going to hang up.”
I rolled my eyes. I knew he wasn't, but this was how he played the game. Everything was a game. “Twelve, and I’ll give you Miranda’s number.”
“Deal.”
“Alright, get dressed in one of the outfits I bought for you, and meet me down the block from Myrella’s in an hour. We’re about to have a public breakup.”
He sighed. “I’m going to have to be an asshole again, aren’t I?”
“It just suits your look so well.” I chuckled.
“You’re lucky I really want in Miranda's pants.”
I rolled my eyes. There was no way in hell Miranda was going to sleep with Blake, and he knew that. “Uh-huh. Just make sure you look fresh, sweetheart.”
“I hate you.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
I ended the call in a much better mood than I'd woken up in. Conversations with Blake were always like that. I'd met him several years ago when I needed to hire some muscle to play the part of a wealthy foreigner who had rubbed the wrong people the wrong way. The grift had gone well, and Blake had actually saved me from a real bullet that definitely was not a part of the plan at the time. The next time we'd paired up, I'd saved his life, so we trusted each other about as well as anyone did. Plus, he was a genuinely likable guy.
I checked my reflection one more time before heading out the door. I'd been right about this being the perfect thing to get my focus off of Karis. Nothing like the rush of starting a con to get the blood pumping. There was nothing like that kind of adrenaline rush.
I took my time getting to the address I’d given him, a small restaurant that was about thirty dollars a plate at lunch. It was too low-key to be popular amongst the young elite, and I happened to know that Leticia loved to take visitors there, so I fully intended to see her with her Bavarian cousin who was just in for the weekend. It had taken a particularly large bribe to get that chunk of information, and I was not about to let it go to waste.
I sat on a bench, pretending to read a book as I angled myself so I could see everyone who entered or exited the spot. Sure enough, at about eleven forty-five, a well-dressed, stately woman with light brown hair in a professional up-do traipsed up to the door. A few streaks of silver made it clear that this was her natural color, and she would have it no other way. With teal eyes and a curvy, but not too soft body, Leticia Backman wasn't an unattractive woman for her age.
I waited about ten minutes and put down my book. It was time for Blake to show up. Luckily, he was relatively easy to spot from a distance. There weren’t a lot of people who had four inches on my own six feet six inches frame. Also, there was the fact that he was practically a solid wall of rippling muscle.
Heads always turned when he walked by. I never figured out how he managed to keep a low profile, but for as long as I'd known him, I'd never heard rumors about him being wanted for anything.
“You look good,” I said, gesturing to his cashmere sweater and casual jeans as I stood.
“You know you’re just complimenting yourself right now, right?” he grumbled.
Blake was good-looking, but he rarely dressed to take advantage of it. When I wanted him playing a certain kind of role, I bought him clothes for it. These were from our last grift together where he'd played a similar role.
“What can I say? I know how to make even you look good.”
“Your arrogance is going to kill you someday, you know.” Blake's voice came out in a growl, but I'd long since learned that it was just his way.
“Probably, but until then, you’re going to be my bully of a boyfriend. You ready?”
Rolling his eyes, the massive man offered his elbow, and we linked arms. To be honest, this was probably the fourth time we'd used the gay boyfriends ruse. So many men were obsessed with always appearing hyper masculine and straight that very few targets expected someone to pretend to be homosexual for gain. Especially a guy who looked like Blake. It was just one more aspect of life to choose from.
We strolled into the restaurant arm in arm. It was nice enough, but a little understated for my taste. If I was going to drop a couple hundred on a meal, I wanted the environment to reflect the opulent sort of lifestyle I was emulating. Maybe I was pretentious, but at least I was honest about it. It was one of the few things I actually was honest about.
The hostess didn’t even bat an eye at us, which I admired considering we both had at least a foot on her. Just a few minutes later, thanks to a nice-sized tip for a table of our choice, we were seated just a few spots over from Leticia, who was still alone. Apparently her cousin was still running on Bavarian time.
Perfect.
We ordered an appetizer and the appropriate midday drinks. For once, I actually let Blake enjoy the food for a couple minutes before I gave him the signal.
“Seriously?” he hissed, his mouth half full of the seafood quiche. I narrowed my eyes at him, and he sighed, putting his food down. “Bastard,” he muttered. Taking a deep breath, he raised his tone just enough to be slightly noticeable. “Honestly, babe, I don’t understand why you’re being so overly dramatic about it.”
“Overdramatic?” I shot back a hair louder. It was tricky to play the volume game. Escalate too soon, and people might catch that it was an act. Escalate too late, and our target wouldn’t be invested in the story.
And what did bored, rich women love more than a good drama? Especially a drama involving someone who wouldn't be trying to manipulate her romantically?
“It’s not fair that you can just dismiss all my feelings with a wave of your hand.”
“Then stop being so ridiculous. I can’t help how other people act at parties.”
“But you can help how you react!”
Now we were borderline shouting, and people’s heads were starting to turn. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Leticia had one perfectly maintained eyebrow raised in interest.
Perfect.
“Would it kill you to say, 'Hey, I’m taken?' Most people don’t even know we’re dating!”
“I’m not putting up with this.” Grabbing a few more quiche for good measure, Blake threw his napkin down and turned to storm out. I had to give props to him. He never did things halfway. “Get your paints and canvases out of my place. We’re done.”
Now, it was time for me to really sell it. I looked after him piteously, then sank my head into my hands. Here was where it really came down to chance. From what I could tell of my profile of the elite woman, she was relatively intelligent but prone to the sorts of flights of fancy that the rich often went on when they were bored. Hopefully, I had provided the perfect opportunity for her next distracting project.
“Are you alright, dear?”
Jackpot.
I looked up with tears in my eyes to see my mark standing beside my table, the perfect combination of concern and interest on her face. Of course, what Leticia didn’t know was that they were from vigorously rubbing my eyes while my head had been in my hands. Uaine taught me that particular trick when I hadn't been able to make myself cry on cue.
I'd flat-out refused to use my p
arents' deaths as a motivator.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. That was so tacky,” I blustered, wiping at my cheeks. “I’ll be fine.”
Without waiting for an invitation, she slid into the seat Blake had just abandoned. “I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but he certainly didn’t seem very concerned about your well-being. Did he kick you out? Do you have a place to stay?”
I composed myself slightly, but still kept that edge of dramatic sadness. “I have a room for rent in an apartment downtown, but there isn’t really a place I can put my canvas and easel to paint. I can’t afford a studio, so–” Dammit, I hadn’t come up with a name for my fake boyfriend. One of the first rules of grifting was to have a complete backstory entirely memorized. How had I made such a rookie mistake? “–Claude lets me use his spare bedroom. Well...used to let me.”
She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “That’s terrible. But you know what? I don’t believe in coincidence, I never have. I just so happen to have a spare studio open at my art instillation.”
Thanks to my hacker acquaintance, I'd been able to make sure it was no coincidence at all.
She fished around in her purse before producing a lilac-colored – and lilac-scented – card that she handed to me with a flourish.
“Come see me after the weekend. I’ll have someplace safe you can store your paintings, and work on new things whenever the muse strikes you.”
Gotcha.
For me, the opening hook was always the part I worried about. Once I did, I never lost them.
“Oh my god, really? But you don’t even know me!”
She shrugged. “That doesn’t matter. I just know that you’re an artist in need, and I’ve always been interested in art. Don’t think of it as charity, think of it as kismet.”
Or a tax write-off for donating a studio space to an underprivileged muse.
“Now, I assume your boyfriend...I mean, your ex had planned to pay for this?” She gestured to the table.
I nodded, forcing a blush to my cheeks. “Yes. This is so embarrassing. I can’t even afford the appetizer, let alone the drinks. Claude was the one with...” I looked away for a moment.
She waved her hand. “Don’t worry about it, dear. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you, thank you so much!”
“Don’t worry about it. Just come to the address on the card on Monday. Now you get home, wash your face, and watch some of your favorite movies. I think you’ve earned some de-stressing.”
“I just don’t know what to say,” I stammered as I stood, ever the perfect image of the humble artist who had just seen a light at the end of the tunnel. “Just thank you, thank you so much! I’ll see you on Monday! I can’t thank you enough.”
She gave me a patronizing smile. “Stop thanking me and get on your way now. And don’t let that bully keep you from getting your works back.”
“Yes, ma’am! I promise.” And with that, I was out the door of the restaurant, but right into where I wanted to be in regards to Leticia. Why couldn’t everything in life be this easy?
And I hadn't thought of Karis the entire time.
Just what the doctor ordered.
Karis
Lying was not my strong suit. It never had been. That was largely the most influential reason I’d decided to pursue an investigational agent position rather than a detective or CIA operative that might need to go undercover.
So I found it incredibly stressful and ironic to be lying now. Granted, not directly. Neither my partner nor my boss asked if my childhood best friend was involved in the theft, but they did ask if I had a good lead, or if I'd noticed anything they missed in the security footage.
And I said no. Every time.
All week, I felt like a giant neon sign was going to drop down from the ceiling at any moment with the word LIAR! in radioactive pink lighting. Benita chalked it up to nerves due to this being my first big case. Technically, she was the lead agent, but I was doing more on this one than I'd done on any others in the past.
I wasn’t really sleeping, even when I finally gave in and took some cold medicine. I wasn’t eating like I knew I should. My coffee addiction felt like it was completely out of control, the excess caffeine making me beyond jittery. I was on edge, and a total mess. I spent every moment torn between worrying that someone was going to find out about Bron and arrest him, and being anxious over what would happen if anyone discovered that I was hiding what I knew.
By the time Friday rolled around, I was a tense, strung out mess. I spent every waking hour I wasn’t at the office trying to search for some sort of paper trail to prove that the guy in the video wasn't my childhood friend. That this grifter wasn't the same kid who'd once given his entire life savings – a grand total of twenty-three dollars and forty-seven cents – to Mrs. Windicott after her husband was killed overseas.
The problem was, the last time Broderick Murray had surfaced anywhere had been eight years ago when he'd gotten busted on a petty larceny charge. He'd only had a couple juvenile offenses prior to that, and never anything more violent than a fist fight with another foster kid, so he'd gotten away with probation. He'd checked in with the probation officer twice, then vanished.
After that, there was no record of Broderick Murray at all.
His mugshot when he was nineteen filled in the blanks between the kid I'd known and the man I'd seen in the security video. While a good defense attorney would probably be able to argue away the resemblance, for me, it was damning.
I tried running his prints against the system to see if any aliases popped up, but there weren't any. I even put in a call to Interpol to see if he'd started his art theft over there, but I'd gotten their email this morning to say that there wasn't anything on their end.
How had a runaway become a con good enough to fool a museum curator for weeks, then make off with three paintings, all without leaving a trace of himself? Getting his reflection in the door had been sheer dumb luck borne out of obsessiveness.
No matter how hard I tried, or where I looked, I couldn't put the pieces together.
Granted, I was sure the three hours of sleep I'd gotten each night since the theft occurred weren't enough to properly fuel my brain, but I didn’t have much of a choice if I wanted to be covert about my one-woman investigation force. I couldn't risk anyone seeing the databases I was searching or the files I was looking through. If one person saw his name, the questions would begin, and they were questions I didn't want to answer.
I sighed as I walked into the office, desperate for it to finally be the weekend. Just as I slipped through the front door and snuck past my ever-flirtatious boss, I decided that I was only going to give myself until Monday to find some sort of lead on Broderick before I would give up and submit all my evidence to Benita.
And tonight...I was taking tonight off.
I needed to clear my head, or I would end up making an even bigger mess of things than I already had. I always did better once I had a deadline anyway.
“Hey rookie,” Alverez greeted me. “You coming down with something? Every day you come in here looking worse and worse.”
I replied with my usual snide tone, “Aren’t you a confidence booster.”
“Come on, you know I don’t mean anything by it.” Benita sat on my desk as I plopped down in my seat, pretty much the antithesis of grace. “What, did that one overnighter throw off your whole sleep schedule?”
Sure, that was a good enough excuse. “I haven't pulled one of those since college. I'll get used to it again.”
“I know you will.” Alverez smiled broadly. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the short time we’ve been together, it’s that once you put your mind to something, you stubbornly beat it with a stick until whatever it was is your bitch.”
That surprised me into a laugh. “Well, that’s one way to put it.”
“Anytime.” She hopped off my desk and returned to her own. “By the way, we’re going back to the museum after lunch. They think they might have
been able to recover some more relevant security footage.”
My heart thudded painfully against my ribcage. “Did they say what? Did they get his face?”
“Ha, I wish. No, but they might have been able to get a shot of his back as he cased the place. Could give us insight into his technique, and maybe that can lead us to associates with similar techniques, maybe even whoever taught him.”
“You can figure all that out just from looking at his back?”
“You studied criminal psychology, right?” she asked.
I nodded. And I'd been trying to use it all week to figure out what Bron was thinking.
“While there's a general profile that fits most grifters, you'll find that there are as many varied motives for them as there are for sexual predators and murderers.”
Maybe this was what I needed, I thought. Someone who didn't know Bron, whose opinion wasn't colored by the biases of the past. Benita could give me insight into the different types of grifters she’d experienced on the job, and maybe then I could figure out what motivated Bron and understand why he'd changed.
It was also a relief to not have to play dumb for a few hours. I could be honestly interested and not have to worry that Benita would question the reasons behind my interest. During the four hours it took us to go to the museum, speak to security, then the owner, grab the files and finally get to the station, she kept up a steady stream of information, often leaving off mid-thought to conduct some business, then picking back up again as if nothing had interrupted.
There were the Theatrics, the grifters who favored getting the victim to hand them the prize or money gladly. Often years would pass before the target realized they had been conned – if they ever realized it at all. Sometimes these were long cons, but often they were short and so simplistic that people never suspected them to be false. These were generally run by people who were in it for the money, but also enjoyed the thrill that came with escaping undetected, the knowledge of having been so clever that their crime was often unnoticed.