Murder Miscalculated (2 page)

I noticed that Lynn was watching my hand as I finished the story. I looked down and only then realized I was flipping a teaspoon between my fingers, an exercise I learned to do in the old days to keep my fingers nimble. Strangely, I couldn’t remember the last time I had done that.

Lynn raised her eyes to mine and I could read concern in them.

“Hey,” I said. I put the spoon down, reached over and took her hand in mine. “Don’t worry, I’m not going back into the pickpocket business.”

She squeezed my fingers. “I hope not, Greg.”

An awkward silence followed as the three of us relived memories from the previous year, memories each would rather not resurrect. Barbara, Lynn and I had almost lost our lives because of my picking pockets, and it would be an understatement to say that the experience had scared me straight.

We were saved from our thoughts by the ringing of the bell over the shop’s front door and a familiar voice calling out a greeting. A minute later Old Tom pushed through the beaded curtain that separated the bookstore from the back room. Junior, the bookstore cat, lay across Tom’s shoulders. “Good evening, everyone. Is that soup I smell?”

Tom was our volunteer store clerk from nine in the evening until daybreak. He tended the store counter through the night in exchange for supper, all the books he could read, and a refuge from the world. Tom was a part-time deacon at Saint Timothy’s, an Episcopal church a few blocks away. He wore his gray hair long, and his bald spot was forever covered by a cloth slouch cap. He peered at the world through impossibly small wire frame glasses with a slight blue tint in the lenses. Tom was typical of the community of customers our store attracted.

Barbara hopped up, took Junior from Tom’s shoulders and placed him on the floor. Junior, a large Russian Blue who believed he was the real owner of the store, ignored the rest of us and strolled in his easy way over to his food dish. Barbara gave Tom a hug and set a place for him at the table. “You bet it’s soup,” she said as she ladled some into the bowl she placed in front of him. “Have a taste, and see if you can figure out what I put in it.”

Tom lifted a spoonful to his mouth and slowly savored it. “Beef, of course, wild rice, some ginger and,” he paused, “fennel, right?”

“Right!” Barbara was pleased. She patted her braids, neatly coiled around her head. With her sundress and sandals Barbara’s look harkened back to an age of flower-power, peace marches and protest.

When we finished eating Tom went up front to watch the store while Barbara, Lynn and I turned to our nighttime chores. It was my job that evening to wash the dishes with Lynn drying. I tried to keep up a light banter, but Lynn did not respond to my gibes. Her long, dark hair hid her face from me, but her silence and body language told me that my run-in with Chad, the young pickpocket, had unsettled her.

The dishes done, I spent the next hour at the desk by the wall, with Junior on my lap, his deep purr more felt than heard. I had learned over the previous year that running a bookstore takes a frightful amount of paperwork. Lynn sat at the table and worked out the schedule for an upcoming series of dance classes. Barbara and Tom were in the store, chatting with a customer.

This was my favorite time of the day. The three of us had formed a comfortable routine. We weren’t rolling in dough, as the bookstore business and making money seem to be forever at odds, but at least we were covering our expenses and doing what we wanted.

Lynn’s dance studio on the third floor of the old brownstone provided the extra income that made things possible. During the morning she offered classes for soccer moms and seniors. Afternoons were filled with children of all ages, and twice a week she offered evening classes for exotic dancers, strippers and more than a few housewives looking to spice up their marriages.

Barbara used the studio, too, for her twice-a-week early morning yoga and meditation classes, having given up teaching tap dancing a few years before when she graduated from septuagenarian to octogenarian.

As for me, I kept us stocked in new and used books and handled the online orders that were coming with increasing frequency. Tonight there was a stack of books to put in packages and, in the morning, taken to the post office.

Lynn and I finished our paperwork chores about the same time. I poured two glasses of cold white wine, and we took them out into the store. We made ourselves comfortable in the twin easy chairs we provide for our customers. Junior saw us and jumped down from a nearby bookshelf. He walked over, climbed into my lap and began washing himself.

Lynn read a dance magazine, occasionally turning back the corner of a page to mark an article to save. I paged through the latest issue of
Publishers Weekly
, mentally making notes of new books.

At eleven Barbara came out to say goodnight to everyone. Lynn and I finished our wine and said goodnight to Tom. Junior’s tail twitched in protest when I placed him on the hardwood floor. Then he silently slipped away to begin his nighttime prowl.

Late that night, after Lynn and I had retired to our room on the second floor, I lay awake in the darkness as lights and shadows crept across the walls and ceiling. Outside the mullioned, iron-framed windows, the streets of the city carried on with their late-night ways. I suspected from the sound of her breathing that Lynn was awake, too. She must have sensed I wasn’t asleep.

“Greg? Are you awake?”

I rolled over toward her. “Yes. You, too?”

“Yes.” She lifted a hand, reached over and touched the tips of her fingers to my cheek. “I’m worried about you. I’m worried that you miss working the street.”

I forced a laugh. “Don’t worry. There’s no way I’m going back to that kind of life.” I took her hand from my face and kissed her fingers. “Why should I? I have everything I want right here.”

She took her hand away from mine and raised herself up on her elbow. In the fragmented light I could see a shadow, not cast by any physical object, cross her face. “Greg, I’m serious. I’m worried you might be tempted too much by,” she paused, searching for words, “by your old way of life, by your life as The Kid. And you need to know something.” Her voice had a quiet urgency. “If you do go back, I don’t know that we can stay together.”

I felt as if the shadow that had crossed Lynn’s face had passed through me. If there was one thing I had learned from the events of the previous year, it was that Lynn meant more to me than anything.

I lifted myself up onto my elbow, matching Lynn’s pose. I reached over and stroked her hair, then her face. “Lynn, I promise. I’m done with picking pockets. I’m done with all of that. I promise.”

Lynn started to say something, then nestled back down onto her pillow. “I hope so. For everyone’s sake, I hope so.”

I lay back down next to her, my arm around her. In a few minutes she was asleep.

I stayed awake long into the night, listening to the sounds of the street outside and unable to will myself to sleep. I truly meant what I’d told Lynn. I really was through with my old life as a pickpocket.

Or so I thought.

Trouble walked into The Book Nook at a quarter past ten the next morning.

I was on the rolling bookshelf ladder, standing with my head up near the whitewashed, stamped tin ceiling, dusting the books on the upper shelves. Junior sunned himself on a ledge under a store window as he supervised my work. A selection of ‘40s swing tunes played on the stereo, and I was moving in time with the music while trying not to sneeze as dust motes swirled around my head.

The shop door opened and the bell over it jingled.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” I called over Artie Shaw’s keening clarinet without looking behind me.

“Take your time. I can wait.” There was an edge in the man’s voice that caused me to leave the dusting until later and attend to him.

I gave him the eye as I came down the ladder, well aware that he was watching me in return. He looked to be on the far side of forty. He was heavyset without being overweight and wore a conservative dark suit. His well-groomed dark hair had a touch of gray, and his face was clean-shaven. There was an intensity in his eyes that reminded me of the way a dog studies someone new. Perhaps Junior felt the same way, as he came from his place in the storefront window and joined me behind the counter.

My visitor quickly dispelled any notion that he was a customer by displaying an FBI badge and identity card as he stated more than asked, “Mr. Gregory Smith, I presume.”

I switched off the stereo. “Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you?”

The man took a moment to slip his identification holder back inside his jacket pocket before answering. His right pocket, I couldn’t help noticing. Old habits die hard.

“I’m Special Agent Lawrence Talbot. I’ve been told you have certain skills that may be of use to me.”

I tried to keep my voice neutral. “How do you mean?”

“I need someone to teach a member of my team how to pick a pocket.”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Agent Talbot, but it’s no use. I’m done with that kind of work.” I waved my arm. “See? I’ve got a bookstore to run.”

“We could make it worth your while, or …” his voice trailed off.

I didn’t like the sound of that. “Or what?”

“One year ago you were given a clean record, courtesy of my agency. That clean record could just as easily be rescinded.” My stomach clenched. I don’t like threats, veiled or otherwise. I had to choke back a reply before I said something I would likely regret. As I sought more temperate words, a voice came from the doorway to the back room.

“I don’t think you heard what my husband said, Mr. Talbot.”

Lynn pushed through the beaded curtain from the back room. She wore a black leotard, and her long, dark hair was down. As usual, she wore ballet slippers, and they made no sound as she stalked across the room. If Talbot reminded me of a dog, Lynn was a she-panther. I recognized the look on her face and would not want to be in Agent Talbot’s position.

Lynn made no secret of the fact that she had been listening. She came behind the counter, took my arm and faced our unwelcome visitor. Her voice was cold. “Greg is through with that kind of work, and he’s not going back to it, no matter what threats you make.”

“Ah, Mrs. Smith, how nice to meet you in person. I enjoyed reading your file. I understand you no longer perform at The Pink Poodle.” Talbot let his eyes wander up and down Lynn’s figure.

I started to move, and Lynn tightened her grip on my arm.

Talbot continued. “That’s a shame. I wish I could have seen you. But you have kept your professional name, haven’t you?” He pointed toward the sign that told visitors that the Lynn Vargas Dance Studio was two flights up. “Perhaps you are thinking of returning to stripping?”

I decided I really didn’t like Special Agent Lawrence Talbot. “I believe you have our answer, Agent Talbot,” I said, making my words final. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Talbot lifted his hands in a
well, I tried
gesture and turned to leave. When he reached the front door he stopped and looked back at us.

“It’s too bad. Agent Cochran thought for certain you’d be willing to help him.”

Damn and double damn. Of all the names he had to throw at us, it would be that one. Cochran had been in the thick of things last year and had proven himself to be a good and true friend. If he needed help, I would at least have to listen to what Talbot wanted of me. Lynn dug her fingers into my arm. I knew she shared my feeling about Cochran.

“Wait,” I called. “You didn’t tell me Cochran was involved.”

Talbot’s mouth tightened into a thin, humorless smile. “I thought dropping his name might help.”

I ignored him and instead turned to Lynn. She searched my eyes as though looking for our future, and she looked troubled about what she saw. Then she dropped her eyes and nodded. I turned to Talbot.

“Okay. We’ll listen to what you have to say, but we make no promises. Let’s go into the back room, and you can tell us about it.”

Talbot’s smile broadened enough to show his teeth. “Trust me when I say that I ask for nothing more.”

Lynn led the way through the beaded curtain. Talbot followed her, and I followed him. If a customer showed up, we’d hear the bell over the door. We sat at the table with Lynn and I sitting next to each other and Talbot across from us.

Our unwelcome visitor sniffed the air. There was fresh-brewed coffee on the stove, so Lynn must have been preparing it when Talbot arrived. Neither Lynn nor I offered him any. Our friends are welcome to share coffee with us anytime, but those who begin their acquaintance with threats go without. He must have sensed that as he turned his attention to us.

“Right,” began Talbot, placing both hands on the table. “Here’s the situation. My team is on the verge of busting a major fugitive, but to nail him we need to intercept some information. That information will be stored on a data card in a certain person’s wallet. We want you to teach our agent enough pickpocketing skills that he can take the wallet without being detected.”

I frowned. “Can’t you just get a warrant for it?”

Talbot tugged his earlobe as he thought before answering. I wondered what sort of tell that was. Was he coming up with a plausible lie, or was he trying to decide how much he wanted us to know? After a few seconds he brought his hand back down to the table. “We need it to look like a random theft by someone working the street. We can’t let the target have any reason to suspect that whoever took his wallet was after the data card.”

“How will you know the right day to take the card?” asked Lynn.

Talbot shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ms. Vargas, but that information cannot be divulged. Suffice it to say that we will know with certainty.”

“How much time do you have until this has to happen?” I asked, my mind working on the problem.

“One month.”

I stared at the ceiling and mulled it over. One month to train someone to lift a wallet. If he or she wasn’t too clumsy, it could be done.

“Where does Cochran fit into this?” Lynn asked.