A Magnificent Crime (5 page)

When I got home, soaking wet, I burst through the door to my apartment and collapsed on the floor. I had walked numbly through the rain, away from the terrifying meeting in Faulkner's car. I was happy to be safe. All I wanted was to be safe.

I sat there, shivering, wondering what I was going to do.

My mind was wheeling. I had agreed to the job. I was in bed with Mephistopheles now, and there was no way I'd be able to live up to my side of the bargain. There had to be a way out of this. I couldn't do the Hope job. I wasn't up to it. But if I didn't do it . . .

I looked down at my hands and tucked them protectively under my arms.

Maybe AB&T could help me. They had a security desk, I seemed to remember, a department that protected their assets.

I needed to talk to my handler, Templeton. Yes, that was what I'd do. But first, I needed a drink. And to get out of these cold, miserable clothes.

I peeled off my soaking shoes and dripped my way into the bedroom. I stripped out of the filthy, sopping sweats I was still wearing—the hotel locker room incident now felt like a week ago—and crawled into a warm cashmere robe.

I slid into soft slippers and padded to the kitchen. I reached directly for the whiskey and poured myself three fingers, neat. I grabbed my phone on the way to the living room and flopped down on the couch, cradling my glass like a security blanket.

I dialed Templeton's direct number. I sipped my drink as I waited. The whiskey was burning, smoky syrup going down—smoldering my insides, heating me and soothing me at the same time.

Templeton picked up after two rings. “Petal,” he said in his rich British timbre. “Always a pleasure. You have good news for me?”

I decided to tackle first things first. “I have the emerald earrings,” I said, confident this line was encrypted and totally secure.

“Fabulous, my dear,” he said. “Everything went well, then? No hitches?”

I fidgeted with the edge of my robe. “Everything went smoothly with the job. More or less.” I did not want to confess my paralyzing panic or that I'd had to improvise my escape.

“Excellent,” he said. “Meet me tomorrow morning at Pike Place Fish Market, nine-fifteen sharp, for the handover.”

“No problem. I'll be there.” I swallowed, not sure how to proceed. Partly, I didn't want to admit I'd been caught by Faulkner. More than that, I found myself hesitating to get into the real reason I couldn't possibly do the Hope job—because of my newfound, crippling fear.

But I needed Templeton's help. I needed him to tell me that AB&T would take care of this, and that I wouldn't have to worry about Faulkner or try to do the Hope job or anything.

“Templeton, I ran into a little trouble . . .
after
the job.”

Silence. Then a worried “Go on.”

“It seems I've been tracked down by a previous mark. Someone who is not too happy with me.”

His voice became low, ominous. “Who?”

At that moment, the front door of the apartment opened. And in walked a tall, sopping figure. Jack. He didn't look up, just tossed the keys to our front door into the dish on the front hall table.

The blue Chinese porcelain dish we'd bought together at an auction this summer, that is, and the antique Pembroke table we'd found at a garage sale together a couple of months ago.

Jack was my boyfriend, and this was our apartment.

I took one look at Jack's face and knew he'd had a bad night.

My conversation with Templeton could wait. Besides, I was always more comfortable talking to my handler without my boyfriend, an FBI officer, listening to the conversation.

“Um, look, Templeton . . . I have to go, actually—”

“No, Catherine. Tell me who confronted you.”

“We'll talk about it tomorrow, okay?” Before he could protest further, I disconnected the call.

“Hey, hon,” Jack said as he closed the door behind him. “You didn't have to get off the phone.”

“I know. It's okay. It can wait.” I walked over to him and put my hands on his face. “You okay? You look like you had a rough time out there.”

Yes, my boyfriend was an FBI agent. I know. It sounds crazy to me, too. But we'd been over all this territory so many times before, and this was just how it was.

We had full disclosure about our respective professions. He knew about my line of work, and I knew what he did, of course. We had so many other things in common. Truth be told, we had
this
in common, too. It was just that when it came to the line in the sand—what was legal, what was not—we happened to fall on opposite sides of that line.

Couples with other differences figure out a way, don't they? Take politics. She's a Republican, and he's a Democrat. It doesn't have to be a deal breaker. Or, say, she's a vegetarian and PETA evangelist. He hunts ducks on the weekend and likes nothing more than blue-rare steak with blood pooling all over the plate.

People make it work, right?

Well, we were going to make it work. Sure, we'd had our bumpy times. We'd split up for several months last year, when he went through a thing. Specifically, he wasn't sure he could handle my criminal tendencies.

But then, or so he tells me, he realized that was crazy. And that no matter our differences of opinion on this topic, we belonged together.

And I'd agreed. Although, to be honest, while we'd been apart, I had explored the option of a more logical relationship—one with a fellow criminal. Ethan Jones was his name, an art thief with AB&T, and a charmer to boot. It had been . . . pretty fun, actually. Well, much more than just fun. But that was in the past.

Jack was the man I belonged with. In spite of our differences, that had to be the truth. Or at least that was what I was counting on.

I scanned Jack's body, head to toe. “Are you hurt anywhere?” I knew he'd been out in the field. One of his first field assignments after so long being a desk jockey. What he'd been doing out in the field, I had no idea. And frankly, I didn't want to know.

I knew he wouldn't really tell me, though. Just like I wouldn't tell him the details of what I'd been doing that night. We had a no-ask, no-tell policy. And that's how we made it work.

It's a common bit of advice given to couples, to leave your job at the office. So that's what we did. He knew I was doing stuff that would get me arrested. I knew he was arresting people for a living. As long as we didn't give each other the grisly details, it was all good.

Nobody wants to hear the boring details of their partner's job, right? Don't every woman's eyes glaze over when her spouse starts regaling her with details of his meeting? Doesn't every man surreptitiously watch the game on TV when his girlfriend starts recounting the various office dramas she's embroiled in?

“Nope, no injuries,” he said, peeling off his wet coat and shoes. “Could do with a shower, though.” His gaze focused on me. He moved closer.

Even though he'd just come in from outside, his body radiated heat. He put his arms around my waist. I got warm. Very warm.

Jack was a tall man, six-foot-three. He would have been a perfect cast for one of those extremely attractive werewolves on TV—great hair, dark and glossy, broad shoulders, and long, muscular legs. He did well as an agent because he was smart. But his physical capabilities alone might have assured his climb within the ranks.

Jack stood out in a crowd. I had never understood why he didn't have more trouble doing the covert part of his job—he was too noticeable. Women's heads turned when he entered a room. Hell, men's heads turned, too. He had an electric presence that was undeniable.

And he was all mine.

His hands slid up my arms to my hair. He smelled of rain and leather. He pushed my hair aside and leaned down to kiss my neck. Shivers traveled the length of my spine.

“Care to join me?” he asked suggestively.

I closed my eyes and felt his warm mouth meet mine.

As he led me down the hall to the shower, all my worries about Templeton, the Hope Diamond, and Albert Faulkner grew blunted and fuzzy. As he slid the robe off my shoulders and kissed my bare skin, I forgot about everything else entirely.

Rome, Italy

 

Ethan Jones sipped an espresso at an outdoor café in Piazza Navona. Ancient buildings in shades of ocher and vanilla fringed the pedestrian square; fountains glittered and splashed in the piazza's center. Couples strolled with gelato, surrounded by the sounds of children laughing and kicking a soccer ball. Pure Italian sunlight warmed the side of Ethan's face.

Behind his Ray-Bans, Ethan kept a careful watch on the doorway of the palazzo across the square. He mostly maintained a peripheral gaze as he sipped his coffee and read the newspaper. He didn't need anyone noticing he was casing the house. And as soon as his targets left, he'd be going in.

Ethan shifted in his chair and felt the weight of his lock-picking kit inside the breast pocket of his Zegna jacket.

People liked to compare Ethan to James Bond. But Ethan knew he wasn't anything like James Bond. He had no interest in killing people. All he wanted to do was steal things, have a shitload of fun doing it, and make a little money. Well, okay, a lot of money.

For a moment, Ethan thought about how much more pleasurable this would be if he had a certain other career criminal working with him today. Which was unusual—he normally loved nothing more than working alone. Sleeping alone was another matter, of course. But working alone had always been his preference.

Except today.

Cat Montgomery had certainly gotten under his skin, as much as Ethan hated to admit it. The girl was unbelievably compelling. Cute, sexy, fun, and a highly competent thief. A very appealing package. And the best part: she had no idea just how incredible she actually was.

Not in a head-case, inferiority-complex kind of way. She just was who she was.

He flicked a page in his newspaper and checked the time on his TAG Heuer. He swept his gaze around the piazza, doing a scan to ensure he wasn't being watched. A group of tourists on a guided walk, led by a docent with a small red flag, entered the piazza. A woman crossed the piazza in front of the group, and for a second, Ethan thought it was Cat.

He did a double take—no, his mistake.

The last time he'd seen Cat Montgomery had been on Blackfriars Bridge in London in the early hours of the morning. They'd just made their escape from the Palace of Westminster after stealing a Fabergé egg. It had been a difficult, dangerous job, and the victory had felt incredible.

On the bridge, however, after all was said and done, Cat had celebrated their escape in the arms of Jack Barlow. An FBI agent, for Christ's sake. The thought of it set Ethan's teeth on edge. He'd been so sure he and Cat had a major connection. But then Jack had shown up like the goddamned hero—even though he hadn't actually done anything. Ethan had been the one risking his neck for her, for the job that was so important to her. Served him right for doing such a ridiculous thing.

After Ethan had returned to Seattle, he'd requested an overseas transfer within AB&T. They had branches all over the world and had found him a great position in Rome.

So from his home base there, he did jobs all over the Italian peninsula. Which was pretty sweet work. There was a lot of art in Italy.

Not to mention the great food. Exquisite coffee. La dolce vita.

Throwing himself into his work was Ethan's primary strategy for forgetting the jewel thief who had worked her way under his skin.

Ethan refocused on the palazzo across the square just as the owners of the house were walking out. Middle-aged Italians with deep tans and plenty of old money. And no compunction about flashing it around. They both wore a lot of bling. Montgomery would like that.

They were going out for lunch. Ethan knew this was their routine. Like many Italians, they enjoyed dinner at home, but they almost always went out for lunch, and they were usually gone for about an hour.

Which should give Ethan just enough time.

Once they had strolled out of the piazza, out of view, Ethan tossed back the last sip of his
caffè
and sauntered across the square. Italians never ran anywhere. They drove like lightning, sure. But once they arrived at their destination, there was no hurry any longer.

Ethan used the key he'd pickpocketed from the owner ten days ago. Ten days was the perfect length of time. It was just enough time for the owner to replace the key and to feel relieved that no trouble was going to come from having lost it.

The door was heavy oak, painted a dark green that had faded a little in the Roman sun, framed by the arching stone of the palazzo. An old iron knocker occupied the center of the door like the big ring under a bull's nose.

Ethan unlocked the latch in an unhurried manner. The trick was acting like he absolutely belonged, like he was doing something perfectly natural. He gave himself an imaginary role. He was a visiting cousin from overseas. He'd been loaned a key, assured that he should go inside and make himself comfortable while they were out.
Help yourself to a Peroni
,
cousin. Sit out on the terrace.

The entrance was dark and cool and smelled of garlic and olives and fresh paint. Ethan climbed the steep stairs and arrived at the first floor, his heart beating rapidly with eager anticipation.

The house was beautifully appointed. High ceilings soared above gleaming polished floors, and every window was surrounded by ornate moldings. It was hushed and quiet: the rich furnishings, heavy curtains, and plush carpets absorbed almost all sounds. Only the ticking of a clock penetrated.

Ethan knew exactly where he was headed. He'd been in this apartment once before. Disguised as an artisan, he'd come to provide a quote on replastering their ceiling. He'd been shown around. As a result, he knew exactly where the Caravaggio was located.

Ethan spoke Italian very well, but it wasn't perfect and carried a slight accent. He sounded a bit like an immigrant, he knew. Which was why, he was sure, he didn't get the job replastering the ceiling. Italians trusted other Italians the most.

And—to be fair—they would have been quite right not trusting him.

Ethan crept along the corridor, confident in his ability to evade the few security cameras. This was just too much fun. And too easy. It's not that he wasn't afraid of being caught—he was. Ethan just happened to be willing to do things most people wouldn't, in spite of the fear.

Anyway, if he wasn't doing this, what else would he do? Return to being a schoolteacher?

Not in a million years.

Ethan hadn't always been a thief. In fact, while he was growing up in LA, his friends had once considered him to be the last existing good guy. They would always razz him, saying, “Nice guys finish last, Jones.”

He hadn't believed that. Until everything came crumbling down.

Ethan had majored in art history in college. Not because of any particular career aspiration, but just because he enjoyed it. He was moderately overweight in those days and didn't spend time or money or effort on a good haircut or great clothes.

The only thing Ethan had going for him was his fiancée. He was engaged to his high school sweetheart, a pretty thing, sweet and supportive. He was lucky to have her, and he knew it.

When he graduated with an art history degree, he found he was qualified to do . . . well, jack shit.

He started taking work as a substitute art teacher, making next to nothing, eating baked beans on toast every night because he couldn't afford better.

It was frustrating. He wanted much more out of life. He wanted more for his wife-to-be and the family they hoped for. He'd always had the feeling he was destined for something bigger. He just didn't know what.

All around him, men who were willing to sell out, fight dirty, look out for number one—they were all getting ahead. His best friend, for example, was a master of industry. He made tons of money as a stockbroker and lived a glamorous life. And Ethan couldn't help being envious of that. He was only human.

He'd been teaching for a year when everything changed.

It happened in an instant. It was the moment he walked in on his best friend—yes, the master of industry—with his fiancée.

Things got worse from there, though. After the shouting and the pleading and the gnashing, they decided they might as well inform Ethan that they were, in fact, in love.

And just like that, his sweetheart left him. Ba-da-boom, nice guy loses. Looks like everyone
did
have it right, after all.

Life got pretty ugly after that for Ethan. Depression affected his work performance, and he soon lost his position as a substitute teacher. He had to move to a crummier apartment because he couldn't afford the rent. But after a while, after he was on a first-name basis with rock bottom, that was when he discovered his own particular talent.

It was all because of a painting.

There was a painting—a little neo-Expressionist work by a twenthieth-century artist named Colby Wallace—that he wanted back from his fiancée. They'd bought it when they first moved in together. Ethan had saved up for a year beforehand. He knew she'd never appreciated it, but that hadn't stopped her from taking it with her when she moved into Ethan's former best friend's massive house.

Ethan had tried to be nice about it. He'd asked politely. And she'd refused to give it to him. She'd just kept on blathering about how much
dickhead
liked it—possibly Ethan's term, not hers—and how well it matched the decor in their library.

Something snapped inside Ethan. And there was only one thing for him to do. He broke into his former best friend's house and stole the painting back.

But the most interesting aspect of that deed was that Ethan pulled it off with very little difficulty. In fact, it was one of the most successful things he'd ever done. And the most satisfying.

The seed was planted. No more Mr. Nice Guy.

He cashed in all his savings, left California, and moved up the coast to Seattle for a fresh start.

He started working out and lost seventy-three pounds. He dropped five inches around his waist and went up two shirt sizes in his chest. Good haircuts became a ritual for him, and he began paying attention to his clothes—dressing like he meant it. Soon, Ethan started feeling really good about himself. And it wasn't hard to notice the effect all that confidence was having on women.

Eventually, he knew he had to figure out a career. When he sat down to think about it, there was one glaring possibility. He'd been so good at stealing back his Colby Wallace. . . . What if he just
expanded
that enterprise a little?

He knew plenty about it. Could tell a real from a fake. Knew what was valuable and what was worth taking. Whether he found himself in an art gallery or a private collection, he'd be able to home in on the money.

He started off fencing his own stuff, but it wasn't long before he was approached by an agency, AB&T. Once he entered that world, there was no turning back. Life was too good. It's like when a tiger gets its first taste of human flesh and forevermore becomes a man-eater.

Becoming an art thief was how Ethan had achieved his potential. It was the only way he'd found of being able to be part of the art world and enjoy a comfortable lifestyle at the same time. That was eight years ago.

Nice guys finish last? You bet they do.

Ethan moved silently through the lush rooms of the Piazza Navona house, past potted palms and velvet draperies, making his way to the room he knew contained the Caravaggio.

But when he got there, he came to an abrupt stop. He stared at the wall, at an empty square of dark ocher amid the sun-bleached butter-colored surface.

The Caravaggio was gone.

Ethan frowned with irritation.
Okay.
It was fine. They'd probably just taken it down to dust or something.
Wait.
The smell of fresh paint. They were having the walls repainted, in addition to having the ceiling replastered. The Caravaggio had to be in the house somewhere.

He went upstairs to the next level and crept from room to room. Ethan was sweating a little now. A jittery feeling jumped under his skin. Time was ticking.

At last, he went into an empty bedroom. The shutters were closed in this room, and only knifelike cracks of light peeked between the slats. A row of paintings in large, ornate frames rested against the papered walls, waiting to be replaced on the freshly painted surfaces below.

The job was on again.

He spotted the Caravaggio. Flipping the frame over, he cut the canvas from its frame in a matter of seconds, rolled it carefully, and tucked it into a cardboard mailing tube.

The average person would take a good thirty minutes to properly remove a canvas from a frame. For an art thief, this was the sort of thing that could be accomplished in twelve seconds flat. It was the fruit of lots of practice.

Now for the tricky bit. The exit.

Ethan went to a front room and tucked himself beside the window frame. The glass was open, so he could hear outside, as well as see. He scanned the piazza, looking for anything out of place. People were sitting at sun-soaked café tables, nibbling pastries, drinking cappuccino. Afternoon crowds now lingered by the fountain's edge, taking photographs of one another with the stone river gods of the Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi in the background.

And then he saw it. A man sitting stiffly at a café, with his face turned toward the front door of the palazzo Ethan was in. Unmistakably an undercover member of the
polizia
. Ethan scanned for another and saw him perched on the fountain's north edge.

Did they know he was inside? Would they have let him just walk in? Sure they would. And let him hang himself by his own rope.

Would they let him walk away with the painting? Of course not.

Ethan sat back to think. There were a few options. He could go out in disguise. Or go out an entirely different way.

He needed to do something creative. Something that would distract the undercover officers.