A Magnificent Crime (8 page)

But although I wanted to believe that fantasy, I never fully did, of course. I knew I wasn't special. I wasn't immortal. I was going to die. And there was nothing I could do.

I became terrified then of dying. Every day I'd wonder if this was my last day. My last day had to be someday, so why not today?

I think it was becoming a thief, ultimately, that helped me get over my fear of dying. When I discovered and honed my skills, I began feeling special. And powerful. And . . . perhaps just a little bit invincible.

So what was I going to do now? Now that the full terror of death had returned to me, stopping me from doing the one thing that made me feel indestructible.

Jack walked into the office at FBI headquarters with a feeling of dread. The office was buzzing, phones were ringing, and file cabinets were clanging. It smelled of stale coffee and printer toner. Fluorescent lighting glowed reluctantly against the dull white walls and industrial-grade blinds and carpets.

He was not looking forward to having to admit to his boss he'd lost the guy from last night. Special Agent Victoria Sullivan was a real ball breaker.

Somehow Jack needed to convince her that he was still worthy of being out on field duty. But he also wanted to know what the hell was going on with this case and why Interpol was involved.

Jack hated office work. He much preferred to be out in the field. He shuddered, thinking of his recent jailbreak from the world of paper and computers and watercoolers. He couldn't go back to that.

Jack walked into Victoria Sullivan's office. He pressed his mouth into a line and closed the door behind him, shutting out the chaos of the outer offices.

Her office was quiet and very still, as if the very air was afraid to disturb her.

“Barlow. They tell me you lost him,” she said.

Jack cleared his throat and shifted. “I did.” He lifted his chin. There was no point denying it. “But the main reason was because of Ludolf Hendrickx.”

“Who?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “I don't know that name.”

“He works for Interpol and he was following Snyder, my mark. I think there's something more going on.”

“I doubt that. Snyder is just a small-time criminal. Part of a larger network, sure, but not worth the attention of Interpol. You must be mistaken. What's your source for that intel, anyway?”

He couldn't tell her. That was because he'd used a less than strictly licit source. And Victoria Sullivan was a stickler for doing things by the book. But Jack knew the best information often came from the underworld itself. And the number he'd sent the photograph of Hendrickx to was a source of Cat's.

He shrugged and tried to change the subject. He writhed inside under the familiar conflict of interest that's part of the territory when you're dating a career criminal.

Even to him, it sounded ridiculous. On the surface, of course, it seemed like cops should stay on their side, criminals on theirs. But Jack knew that reality was complicated. The law and lawbreakers were intimately involved. There were many cops and FBI agents who had working relationships of various types with criminals.

It was like that old Bugs Bunny cartoon, the one with the sheepdog and the wolf punching their time clocks and greeting each other.
Morning, Ralph. Morning, Sam.

But even given those pseudo working relationships, not many FBI officers were actually dating criminals. Much less living with them.

God knows he'd tried to end it. Last year he couldn't handle it. Decided they were just too different. But then he'd been shown just how wrong he was. He couldn't live without Cat. She meant too much to him.

His boss was still standing there, waiting for an answer as to where he'd come by the information that Hendrickx was Interpol—even though Interpol didn't have an official record of him.

“Well, it doesn't matter,” she blurted before Jack could start explaining. “Write it up in your report. Then here are the cases I want you to work on. An audit of the department's performance that needs analysis—”

Jack closed his eyes and groaned silently. Paperwork. She was pulling him out of the field already.

Jack stepped closer to Victoria's desk. “Listen, I know I screwed up last night. But I need another chance. And I really believe there's something more to this than we know.”

“Yes, you said that. And like I said, put it in your report. Then get to work. You're off this case.”

At that moment, the page on Victoria's desk phone beeped. “Special Agent Sullivan?” said a tinny, plaintive voice. “They called up to tell you the computer forensics meeting has started.”

“Get to work, Barlow,” she said, throwing on her jacket and striding out of the office.

Jack turned to leave and then spotted the file folder sitting on the edge of her desk. The file that contained details of this case. The one he was not privy to see.

He hesitated a moment. Victoria was way down the corridor now, nowhere in sight. He looked up to see if anyone else was watching.

And then Jack slid his hand under the smooth folder to flip it open and take a brief look inside.

The top page was an e-mail that had been printed out. He scanned the page like lightning. Some words stuck out, like
Snyder
and
Washington
and
Interpol
and
the Gargoyle.

Gargoyle.
Now, where had he heard that name before?

And Interpol. Fuck.
He knew they were involved. Why would his supervisor deny it? He read the document through more carefully. And a gnawing feeling developed in his gut.

He should leave it. He should walk away and forget what he had seen.

Jack closed the file and strode from the office at medium speed, nothing furtive or guilty or rushed. But his brain was churning.

Sitting down in his cubicle, he turned on his computer and watched the lights flicker and heard the CPU fan start to hum.

What he should really do here was forget all about this.

His supervisor was not going to be impressed with him doing his own little side detective work. He was not some amateur sleuth in a cozy mystery. He was a professional. He was FBI. There were rules and regulations. Protocol. He needed to operate within those bounds, and that was the way to get ahead.

But he was not convinced they were doing this right. He leaned back in his desk chair, the springs bouncing gently under him. He scrubbed his hand through his hair. The file suggested they were barking up the wrong tree.

 

Interpol involvement—initially suspected, now ruled out.
Involvement with the Gargoyle—unlikely.

 

If the Gargoyle was the bigger fish and Interpol was truly involved like Jack suspected they were, why
wouldn't
this involve the Gargoyle?

There was something important about this investigation. Jack could feel it in his gut. He knew criminals. He knew them from the inside out.

It was Jack's bane . . . but it was perhaps also his advantage. Something he possessed that his supervisor did not.

Maybe he could keep investigating this case on the side. No fanfare, just surreptitiously. No matter what Victoria Sullivan had told him or not told him to do.

As long as he could keep it a secret. Of course, he had no idea what he'd do if he actually learned anything of value. He'd have to call an audible on that play, if it happened. But maybe it wouldn't come to that.

And then Jack's phone buzzed. Wesley Smith's number flashed onto the screen.

Jack's eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“It's been awhile, Jack,” came Wesley's voice, relaxed and friendly, when Jack answered the phone.

“What's up, Wes?” Jack said cautiously.

“I need to talk to you. Can you meet me?”

Jack hesitated. He did not need more criminal involvement. But . . . Wesley was different. He was a crook, true, but somehow he was also one of the good guys. He didn't play mind games with Jack. He was a straight shooter.

Truth was, if Jack had a choice between working with someone like Wesley and working with someone like Victoria Sullivan, he'd take Wesley anytime.

But this was not a request to work together. This was just a meeting. There was nothing illegal about that. Out of respect, he could go and hear what Wesley had to say. But his involvement would stop there.

Jack rubbed the side of his face and exhaled. “Sure, Wesley. Where?”

 

Half an hour later, Jack strolled into Pioneer Square. He spotted Wesley on a bench on the far side, beside the ornate Edwardian streetcar shelter. Old brick and stone buildings, refurbished into bookstores and coffee shops, surrounded the square.

Jack turned up the collar of his jacket against the chilly mist.

Wesley was a lean, wiry man, and when he grinned, he showed far too many teeth. But he wasn't grinning now. He was looking away, holding a paper Starbucks cup, pretending not to recognize Jack.

Jack sat down on the bench and pulled out a newspaper. “So what's this about?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the paper and flipping through to the sports section.

“We need your help. It's the Fabergé.”

Jack said nothing for a moment. His hand froze midair, about to turn a page. The Fabergé? But that was impossible.

“What are you talking about? The egg was destroyed,” he said finally. He lowered his voice. “The Gifts are gone.”

Wesley shook his head. “No, they're not.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Jack, this has happened before. The egg always resurfaces.”

Jack sighed. “If you're going to go all weird on me, bro, and start talking about mystical powers—”

“No. It's not that.” Wesley paused as a mother with a baby in a carriage strolled by. “There are rumors about a clandestine group of people who protect objects of extreme importance.”

“Just protect?”

“Apparently, they're not concerned with ownership. They watch and wait, and if there is a need, they intervene to prevent an object's destruction.”

“You're saying they were in London when we were there? They saved the Fabergé when it fell?”

Wesley shrugged. “It's possible.”

Jack looked away, across the square. It sounded pretty far-fetched. They didn't care about ownership? But they were willing to go to extreme lengths to protect valuable objects?

But if there were such a group, this particular Fabergé egg and what it contained would certainly fall under the heading of extreme importance. The Gifts of the Magi, the original gold, frankincense, and myrrh that had been given to Jesus long ago—and then stolen, an act that had spurred the creation of thieves' guilds—were immeasurably significant.

The quest to recover the Gifts and return them to their rightful owner was the only honorable thing Jack's father, a career criminal, had been involved in. It had been a mantle Jack himself had taken up.

Until he'd believed the Gifts had been destroyed.

“We've been searching for the Fabergé egg nonstop since it disappeared in London last year,” Wesley said. “And now it's been tracked to Dubai. I need you to come with me and help me find it.”

“Isn't there an overseas team?” Jack could still taste the bitterness of being left out of things last time, at the last minute, for just this reason.

“Yes. But you're the one I trust the most.”

Trust.
That was ironic. Here was a professional crook talking to a federal agent about trust. Jack looked sideways at Wesley.

Jack had no doubt the man did, indeed, trust him. Jack had the ability to make things difficult for Wesley officially, but here the man was asking for help. Likewise, Wesley could screw Jack if he wanted to. He had more than enough material for blackmail, if he chose to go that route.

But Jack knew he wouldn't. There was definitely mutual trust here. And that was a very rare thing.

Jack felt the same pull as before when it came to the Fabergé and the Gifts. Last year it had become more than just fulfilling his father's wishes, and it was a hell of a lot more than just a treasure hunt. It had meaning.

But Jack was on the edge of something else that had meaning now. Finding the Gargoyle.

And while there was a team in place to hunt for the Fabergé with Wesley, there was no such team searching for the Gargoyle. At least none that Jack knew of.

Then there was the small issue of Jack's career, his tentative position within the FBI. He just couldn't get involved with the criminal side right now. He had to focus on staying on the right side of the law.

Something else occurred to Jack. “Have you talked to Cat about this?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?” As far as Jack could see, Cat was the perfect choice. She'd been heavily involved last year—in fact, she'd been the only one to successfully capture the egg. It was a short-lived possession, sure, but it was closer than the rest of them had come.

“The Agency says Cat is tied up with another big case right now. She's not at liberty to join us. We're going to try to keep her out of it for now.”

Jack frowned.
A big case?
He wanted to know, yet he didn't want to know. A familiar struggle.

For a second, Jack thought how much easier it would be if he just left the FBI. If he joined the dark side. No more secrets.

But he just couldn't do it.

Still, how many different ways was he going to blur the lines before he lost sight of who he truly was?

“Jack, come on,” Wesley said. “I'm flying to Dubai tomorrow. Why don't you join me? We've been a great team in the past. Let's do it again.”

Jack folded the newspaper and held it tightly in his hand, not saying anything for a moment. It would be easy. He was valued by Wesley and his team. It was something he could do and do well.

“I can't,” Jack said at last and shoved the paper under his arm.

Wesley nodded, accepting defeat. “Okay. But if you change your mind, you know how to get in touch with me.”

Jack stood. “I do. Good luck.”