A Magnificent Crime (10 page)

The next day I sat at my desk, staring at a plane ticket to Paris. One traveler. Solo. Leaving tonight.

Earlier today I had told Jack I was going to Paris, and I had tried to convince him to come with me. I thought maybe he'd be able to get away for a few days. Spending a little time together in Paris—the most romantic city in the world—would be wonderful. Of course, me casing the Louvre might not be the most romantic thing ever. But I figured we could spend an hour sitting at a sidewalk café or nuzzling in the park, like everyone else in Paris.

But when I brought it up, he was evasive. Said he had some important stuff he was working on. He started running his hands through his hair and looking away, out the window. Then he began muttering things about making a difference. That this was his chance.

It was one of the things I found most fascinating about Jack. He truly wanted to make the world a better place.

But even if he couldn't go to Paris, I still needed to. I told him I needed to head out of town for a couple of weeks for business.

When I said those words . . . well, I could see what it did to him. He hesitated a second, during which I knew he was processing the fact I'd said, “For business,” and he knew I meant “To do something illegal, which most likely involves stealing something.”

I could see the conflict on his face. He was simultaneously repulsed by what I did and fascinated by it. And, at the same time, schooling himself to not ask a lot of questions.

But of course he was fascinated. Jack came from a long line of lawbreakers. His father, in fact, was one of the legendary jewel thieves of all time—John Robie, the man who'd been the inspiration for Hitchcock's
To Catch a Thief
, the Cary Grant and Grace Kelly film.

To Jack's credit, he merely nodded with my news. There were no follow-up questions. We both knew we did what we had to do.

I have to confess, sometimes it bothered me that there was so much we didn't talk about. We tiptoed around these taboo subjects, and it had become a habit. Sometimes we even tiptoed when we didn't need to.

I looked at my ticket again, read the details for the hundredth time. The flight time, the baggage limitations, the departure date, April 20. Today.

My heart dropped into my stomach. How could I have forgotten?

There was somewhere I needed to be.

 

Twenty minutes later I pulled up to Lake View Cemetery in my black Mini Cooper and parked in the lot.

I still wasn't sure I wanted to be here. Actually, I was quite confident I did not want to be here. Being in a place like this was terrifying for me. Death occupied way too many of my thoughts these days.

But I couldn't
not
be here. So I forced myself to put my hand on the door handle and step out.

It was okay, I told myself. I'd just make a quick visit. The cellophane crinkled as I clutched the flowers by my side. I'd do this thing, then get out of here.

I padded across the thick grass of the cemetery. Past some graves that were well tended, some that were ancient and crumbling and looked like everyone who had ever loved that person was now in a grave, too.

I passed some familiar headstones. The looming tomb-like one. The pretty one in pink granite with engraved roses—I'd liked looking at that one when I was a kid. Then, a few steps away, the scary one with the face carved into it.

I tried not to think about what it meant, this place. And what each of the stones represented. People who had all faced their final moment, had stood before death, and had gone through to the other side. It was something that was occupying my dreams, my nightmares, my waking thoughts.

And then, as I grew closer, I took a sharp breath of surprise. Crouched by the side of the grave, hand touching the headstone, was my father.

“Dad?”

He turned, startled. His eyes were red-rimmed. This was a jolt for me. I rarely, if ever, had seen my father cry.

“Ah, Cat. I wondered if you'd be here today.”

“Of course I'm here today. I always come on this day.” Today was the anniversary of my sister's death.

It was fourteen years ago that Penny had died. On her bike, by herself, a hit-and-run. And it had been my fault.

She had wanted me to—no, she had needed, had
begged
me to—steal something for her. Her lucky ring. She'd asked me to get it back from the mean girl who'd taken it and stashed it in her locker.

I had refused.

And Penny had taken matters into her own childlike hands.

If I'd just done it, she'd be fine. But I had tried to fight my true nature, the gifts given to me.

And that was one of the reasons I kept doing it. Being a thief, I mean. To honor Penny. At one time I'd thought I might find atonement by doing this. That maybe there was a job out there to release me. I now knew that wasn't going to happen. This was too much a part of who I was.

Of course, it might be the end of me, too. And this was something I didn't know how to handle in the least. Not anymore.

I looked at my dad and wondered what it meant that he had started coming to Penny's grave again. Also, where was my mom?

Truth was, I really didn't have time for a whole family reunion. I had to get on a flight.

Both my parents knew about my real job. My mom had known for a few years, and she was on board. Actually, more than that—she considered herself my business manager. This was an opinion we did not share.

My dad was another story. He had learned the truth only a few months ago. And he had taken it very hard. “I feel like I've lost two daughters now,” was what he'd said.

I placed my cellophane-wrapped tulips on Penny's grave. My dad and I stood silently for a few minutes. But I didn't need to look at my watch to feel the time ticking.

“Dad, I know I just got here. But I really have to go.”

I wanted to cry in his arms. I ached to tell him how scared I was. Tell him about the bad guy threatening me. To stand in this place of death and tell him I was terrified of dying. I wanted to stay there longer. I wanted to give him a hug.

But the time wasn't right yet for all that.

I desperately hoped he'd come around someday. When I got back from Paris, reconnecting with my dad would be the first thing I'd do.

As long as I got back in one piece.

 

Several hours later, the plane roared beneath me as we lifted off the runway. I'd made my connection in Washington, DC, with no problem, and now there was nothing standing in the way of this mission except a lot of open sky.

En route to the airport in Seattle, I had sent Faulkner a message on the encrypted cell phone he'd given me to communicate with him. “Mission accepted. En route to Paris.”

The message had come off far more confident than I felt.

At least I was flying business class; that perk came courtesy of Templeton's campaign with AB&T. It was the least they could do, he'd said.

As the overhead compartments rattled during takeoff and my torso pressed back into the seat, I felt fresh doubt. There was the fear thing, of course. But also, did I really have the chops for this job, anyway? Faulkner hadn't commissioned me because I was the best. He'd commissioned me because I was the one he could blackmail.

As we bumped through a turbulent patch and passed through thick clouds, I gripped the arms of my seat.

The plane banked to the right as the pilot adjusted his course for Paris.

I needed a distraction, so I turned to the woman sitting beside me. “So what takes you to Paris?” I asked.

She didn't look up from her book right away. Yes, that's my favorite. Trying to strike up perky small talk with someone who utterly ignores you. Nothing awkward about that.

At length, she raised her head and turned to me.

“Business,” she said, fixing me with a cold gaze. She didn't volunteer anything further and went straight back to her book.

“Ah. Me too,” I said.

I looked at her a little more carefully then. And as I did, I realized she was familiar. She had brown hair, chopped short at the back and longer on top and in the front, in the sort of stylish cut I imagined I'd get when I was her age—which I guessed was about sixty. Her fingernails were perfectly manicured. She had a strong jawline. And the sort of smooth, plump skin that is the fruit of good genes and much attentive care from a skilled facialist.

But I definitely recognized her from somewhere.

“Do I know you?” I asked. “You seem familiar.”

After a few beats she looked at me again. “I don't know. But you are not familiar to me.”

I furrowed my eyebrows, trying to place her. “What's your line of business?”

“Museum curation,” she said. Clearly, she was growing extremely impatient with me.

Fine.
I would leave her alone. I turned to stare out the window.

And then it dropped. Oh my God, I could not believe it. This was Madeleine York, the director of the Smithsonian's National Museum of Natural History.

What were the chances? And then I became suspicious. What
were
the chances?

Was this pure coincidence? Or was there something more going on?

I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable now.
Think it through, Cat.
How could she possibly know about me? The only people who knew what I was doing were underworld types. Not established pillars of society and directors of national museums.

After the flight was well under way, Madeleine ordered a whiskey sour. I did the same. I needed her to open up a little, and I knew the best way to do that was to play the mirror game. People tend to trust people who look and act the same as they do. It's a dirty trick, really.

But it works.

I channeled my inner culture snob, called up everything I knew about fine art, and after another round of drinks, Madeleine started to relax.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, after the dessert had been served, Madeleine became downright chatty. “I mean, can you imagine such a thing?” she was saying, pausing in her story to take a spoonful of crème br
lée. “All of us at the Smithsonian thought that was simply ridiculous. . . .”

I jumped on that like a five-time bridesmaid on a bouquet. “Oh, you work at the Smithsonian?” I tried to maintain a casual tone, drinking my wine.

She looked at me and nodded. “Yes, I do.”

I wondered if I could press this advantage a little. Could I get some useful information out of her?

“I love museums,” I said with a smile. “I can't wait to see the Louvre.”

“Well, that's where I'm going, too.”

“Ah! Comparing notes?”

“In fact, they are holding an exhibit that will feature some of our pieces on loan. You've heard of the Hope Diamond?”

“Oh, um, yes. Hasn't everyone?” I said noncommittally. “Not that I follow that stuff much.” On second thought, this was heading into uncomfortable territory. But Madeleine York was warming to her subject now, and I didn't want to come off peculiar at this point.

“It's quite a fascinating undertaking, you know, transporting precious objects overseas,” she said, swirling the ice in her drink. “The last time the Hope went to the Louvre, it did so in the hands of one man. Or, more specifically, in the secret pocket hand sewn by his wife, inside his trousers.” She leaned in conspiratorially.

I knew about this, of course. No armored vehicles. No high-tech security systems. No guards with M16s.

And, when you think about it, it's the perfect way to transport a priceless gem. Flying absolutely under the radar. A single person would be invisible, slipping in and out of the system exactly like one of the three million people traveling that day.

As long as nobody knew who was carrying it and when. Nobody with a willingness to murder, namely.

Because, of course, that one man with the secret pocket would be at terrible risk. The flesh-and-bone obstacle to somebody's multi-billion-dollar fortune. I can think of many people who would be sorely tempted to cut that flesh and break that bone to get to that fortune.

That's the thing about jewels: although they can lift you to the heights of inspiration, they can also blind you with their brilliance. And they can drive you to your knees with greed and want.

Truth is, every time the Hope Diamond has been transported, it's happened under extremely low-tech, sneaky security. Which, to the public, seems crazy. Where is the platoon of security guards? Where is the iris-scanning technology? To a thief, however, it's absolutely brilliant. And infuriating.

One man with a diamond sewn into his trousers is a far more effective security barrier—simple, elegant—than an entire army. With an army, there must be communication. There has to be a plan and various moving parts. And when there is a complex plan, there are seams. There are weaknesses. And those are the opportunities a thief can use to his—or her—advantage.