Pockets of Darkness (4 page)

Five

Bridget stood in the shower, relishing the feel of the hot water pounding her back. Steam rose; she should have turned on the fan. It fogged the glass door, and she traced patterns on it, first a crooked smiley face, then a symbol for the Westies, an Irish street gang she belonged to during her teen years. Small then, truly insignificant in numbers now, the Westies had been her family, and she knew that the man who headed it had been a better parent to her than she was to Otter. Maybe not in the guiding hand sense to show her right from wrong, but in all the other ways that really mattered … being around, being interested and supportive. She’d embraced the Irish-Brooklyn culture, held to some of the slang, and thought of Westies often. She brushed away the symbols and watched the glass fog over again.

At least she had provided Otter with a memorable birthday dinner, and she’d take the boy with her tonight as a treat.
Dear God, don’t let the kid talk about any of this with Tavio,
she thought. Her ex- was so Catholic-straight-and-narrow-minded he’d never let her see Otter again. Or was that what she wanted, to completely sever her parental responsibility? That would make Tavio happy.

She was surprised the marriage had lasted as long as it had; her marrying so young and on an impulse, getting pregnant within the first couple of months. The sex had been frequent and good; and he’d bought her enough pretty things to keep her close for nearly ten years. But Bridget’s business had lured her away an increasing number of hours—more than Tavio was willing to put up with and for dealings he grew less and less tolerant of. She feared on more than one occasion he’d call the police about her doings. Though Tavio was no angel, he told her she was a bad role model for their son. The divorce was finalized three years ago.

She turned off the water and drew the last traces of steam deep into her lungs, then stepped out and toweled herself carefully—the wrestling match with the thieves had resulted in painfully sore ribs. Already a bruise the size of a dinner plate was showing. She padded to her closet, which had once been a small bedroom, and selected an olive pair of skinny jeans and a black turtleneck. She dressed by the window, looking across at the nearby brownstones of Fort Greene.

It was a Brooklyn neighborhood on the edge of being upscale and trendy. Years past the area had been primarily black, and crime rates were high; now it was truly an ethnic melting pot of upper middle-class, touted by local politicians as being safe enough to walk your dog at three a.m. The sheen of Fort Greene, from Atlantic to Nassau, Flushing to Flatbush, had relaxed some of the residents, lulling them into a sense of security. An area with million-dollar condos? Bridget thought that kind of sparkle attracted criminals.

Rapes, robberies, and felony assaults were up a little, and there were reports of stolen cars every few months. A doughy woman directly across the street had flowers and a bicycle stolen yesterday. Realtors tried hard to downplay all of that.

None of those things worried at her, as she had state-of-the-art security … though that would have to be analyzed as tonight’s thieves had managed to find their way through it. Too, she was part of the criminal element that had crept in.

She loved this brownstone, remodeled and decorated to suit her perfectly, roughly twelve thousand square feet of space. Other buildings in the historic block were apartments and high-end condos that had shot up property values; Bridget’s place had a dozen units in it when she’d purchased it four years ago and sent all the tenants elsewhere. She didn’t like to share her quarters. She’d paid a little more than eight million for it, but it was easily worth double that now with all the improvements she’d made, including the outer facelift and the addition of a small elevator.

The nearby Pratt Institute gave Fort Greene a reputation of an artistic and cultural center, though the neighborhood’s public school rankings were below average. There was a thriving business district a few blocks over—her shop was located smack in the middle of it.

“They’re all waiting for you,
mon amour
.” Dustin had entered so silently she started. He had changed into Dockers khaki and a bulky sweater that hid his muscles. His shoulder-length hair was pulled back so tight his face appeared sharp, all angles and edges. Handsome? Bridget thought beautiful was a better word.

“Lost in thought,” she told him, turning.

Dustin rubbed against her, angling his chin down so he could stare into her face. “Penny for those thoughts, Brie dear. But I would give you a dollar.”

She kissed him. He must have showered; he smelled of musk. The kiss was long, and he was the one to finally break it off.

“Otter did not know about you and me, did he?” Dustin thrust out his bottom lip in an adorable pout. “You keep things from him.”

“He thinks you’re too young for me.”

He laughed softly. “He’s probably right.”

“I’m thirty-three.
Only thirty-three
. He called me old.”

“I like older women, Brie. And I like your son. But he is so different than you,
mon amour
.”

Bridget raised an eyebrow.

“Your skin.” He touched her chin with an index finger. “So pale, you are. Like cream. And he is—”

It was Bridget’s turn to laugh. “Otter enjoyed three weeks in Miami with Tavio for his Christmas break. I doubt he spent one minute more than necessary indoors.”

“And his hair is like ink and short like a cap. Yours is red like fire.”

A frown spread. “Otter has my ex-husband’s looks,” she sadly admitted. “I see Tavio so clearly in his face.”

“But he has your eyes.” Dustin kissed her again and tugged her toward the bed. “Let us take our dessert now, eh?
I will make you forget all about your ex-husband Tavio.”

She almost gave in, as she could never get enough of Dustin. It wasn’t close to love, but she recognized that she held certain affections for him—and definitely a physical attraction. Bridget wasn’t looking for anything beyond that.

“I will make you forget again and again.” His teeth clicked lightly against hers.

Bridget normally had the stamina to keep up with Dustin in bed … though after her struggle with the thieves, she knew she wouldn’t last long tonight.

“Business, remember?” Bridget said reluctantly. “I’ve an appointment near the docks. I can’t miss this one.”

“I remember.” Dustin sucked on her lower lip and shared her breath. “Business and then pleasure, my Brie.” He backed away and went into the closet, returning with a pair of calf-high leather boots. Kneeling in front of her, he helped her put them on. “Then after this business, the pleasure will be mine.”

Bridget felt a warmth creep up to her face.

“Your son, he is coming with us to the warehouse?”

Bridget nodded and took a last look out the window. “For his birthday.”

“Sweet, odd name, Otter.” Dustin paused. “I really do like him.”

Bridget smiled. “I’m sure he likes you, too.”

He shrugged. “He likes my cooking. I will take that as a good start.”

O O O

Dustin served the cake on “Happy Birthday” paper plates. It was not lost on Bridget that Otter’s piece was twice as big as her own.

“Incredible.” Otter made short work of it and asked for seconds. “What is it?”

Dustin smiled. “White chocolate mousse with raspberry sauce, iced with vanilla whipped cream. I just learned it in my dessert class.”

“I’m taking the leftovers with me when I go home tomorrow night.”

Home
. Bridget winced. She had no right to think that Otter would consider this place home, especially as infrequent as the visits had been. She just wished the boy was more delicate with his choice of words.

“If you keep eating like this there will be no leftovers.” Dustin waited a moment. “Would you like a third?”

Otter patted his stomach. “I’m good.”

Bridget only nibbled at hers. It was, indeed, delicious. But she’d eaten too well at dinner, and her thoughts of the three thieves on the leather couch a dozen feet away upset her stomach. Rob, Marsh, and Lou, the leader. She sat the plate on the coffee table and eased out of the chair, her ribs protesting.

“You’re feckin’ fools,” she said, walking toward them. All three had removed their masks. Marsh, the one Bridget had cold-cocked, was still woozy, staring forward with a vacant expression.

Rob sat in the middle. Though he nodded in agreement, he looked puzzled. “So, how’d we screw up?”

“We didn’t.” Lou was wedged against the arm of the couch. He glared at Bridget. “We didn’t screw up. We did just what the boss wanted. I don’t see how that makes us fools. Boss, Rob didn’t even complain when your kid beat the shit out of him. I’d say we passed your test with flying colors.”

“Did what I wanted?” Bridget’s face reddened with ire. “You were supposed to find a way in—”

“Which we did,” Rob offered. “I got through your system. I’m first-rate. It didn’t take a whole lot of—”

“—not let the neighbors spot you.”

“Did that, too,” Rob said. He straightened a little, and Bridget glared at the show of bravado.

“And you were supposed to rob me.”

“You stopped us there,” Rob admitted. “But, really, we didn’t want to rough you up too—”

“Feckin’ fools,” Bridget shot back. “Test? You didn’t come close to passing the test. You ignored Dustin. You thought he fainted, and so you concentrated on me and my son. You didn’t see him crawl out of the room and summon help. He was effectively invisible to you. And so he was your downfall.”

“Epic fail,” Otter announced.

Rob shrank a little. “Yeah, well, there was that. Didn’t consider him a threat, boss. A man in some cook’s apron, in that outfit, he—”

“Everyone’s a threat.”

The lead thief spoke again. “Next time we’ll—”

“I don’t know if there will be a next time, Lou.” Bridget continued the rant. Her words were fast, spittle shooting from her mouth as she stepped closer. “Worse, you brought a gun. Pissmires and spiders, you brought a gun. I told you no guns. No guns ever.”

“It wasn’t loaded, boss,” Lou said. “Just used it as a prop, you know, a threat.”

Bridget dropped her voice to a whisper. “Never bring a gun. It escalates everything. And if you get caught … and with the skills you exhibited at dinner you will get caught … the court will tack on years and years and years. A gun escalates everything.”

“Sorry, boss,” Rob offered. “We just thought—”

“No you didn’t. You didn’t think.” Bridget’s voice hissed like steam escaping from a kettle left too long on the stove. “You didn’t think. And you lacked style. You lacked common sense, and you insulted my son.”

“Oh, the Timex,” Rob said. “Yeah, I should’ve just taken it. Bad form, huh, to tell someone they’re wearing crap. Shouldn’t have stepped on it, even if it was a piece of sh—”

“Hey!” Otter stood up from his chair.

Bridget waved him back down. “You treat your marks with a modicum of respect, understand? And don’t underestimate them. The people we target, the places … they have security as good as mine. Maybe better. In some cases definitely better. If you can’t defeat me, you can’t rob them. Do you want to get caught? Spend your life in prison?”

Rob shook his head. Marsh was glassy-eyed, fading out again.

“Get him to the emergency room,” Bridget directed. “Say he got in a bar fight.”

Rob made a move to rise, but Bridget wasn’t quite done. “Boss, I—”

“I thought you were better than this, especially you, Lou. I trained you better than this. Sloppy, cocksure, holding back for fear of hurting me. Scuttering gobshites. I see the excuses flitting behind your eyes. I should drop the lot of you, worthless as thieves!” She might not have been so furious if Otter was not here. She realized the boy’s presence was coloring things; she wanted to look more dangerous and commanding in her son’s eyes, to paint herself an authority figure that her underlings feared.
Let the boy think I am terrible and important.
And yet, she thought she should share some of the blame for the thieves’ failure. She’d trained them … perhaps just not well enough.

“I probably gave Marsh a concussion,” she said, lowering her voice. “But all three of you deserved a crack in the head.” She would apologize later to Marsh and pay his dental bill. She stood silent a moment. She heard a vacuum cleaner running upstairs.

“Maybe you knocked some sense into Marsh,” Otter suggested.

The vacuum shut off, and furniture was pushed across the floor overhead.

“I thought you were among my best students.” Bridget made a
tsk
ing sound. “What was
I
thinking?”

“Boss, we’ll do better.” Rob stood, hands in front of him in a pleading gesture. “Don’t drop us. Honest, we’ll—”

“You
will
do better,” Bridget said. “Now get out of here. Get Marsh to North Central. The doctors in the ER there aren’t too nosey. They’re too busy to be nosey. Take him out the back.”

Bridget waited until they’d left, then she finished her piece of cake, the sugar softening her temper. “We’d better be on our way,” she told Otter. “Your birthday present is in a warehouse down by the docks.”

***

Six

They left the F train at York Street, where an aging saxophone busker leaned against a lamppost playing
All Bird’s Children
. Bridget dropped a twenty into his open case; the bill stood out amid the collection of coins. They were halfway down the block when he started another Woods’ piece:
My Man Benny.
The persistent honking of a taxi stuck behind a delivery truck ruined the intricate jazz melody. The drivers of both vehicles started cursing at each other in different languages.

“Maybe we should’ve taken a cab.” Otter set his step in time with the blat of the horn.

“Cabs smell like Pine-Sol.”

“Yeah, well, Mom, that subway smelled worse.”

“And every other cabbie is a psycho.” Bridget mentally corrected herself; things had gotten better, now it was every third cabbie.

Bridget did not travel by taxi, and did not own a car or possess a driver’s license. She secretly loved traveling on the subway. None of her dealings in the city took her far from a subway stop. “We only have to walk two blocks.”

“I couldn’t tell you the last time I visited Dumbo, Mom. Nostalgic, huh? I think I was ten and on a field trip for some art exhibit. It was warmer then. Never been here at night.”

“There are some amazing places to eat in this neighborhood,” Dustin said. “Grimaldi’s has coal-fired pizza.”

“I like pizza,” Otter said.

“The Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory,” Dustin continued. “No preservatives, no eggs, freshly-made hot fudge. The River Café, a little pricy, but I think well worth it. Your mother and I ate there a few days ago. The Wagyu Steak tartare was an exceptional appetizer with its Cognac gelée, and the Mediterranean sea bass with chorizo sausage and shrimp stuffing was superb. I would like to try their roasted Amish chicken. The prosciutto served with it is said to—”

“I like pizza,” Otter repeated. “Though the swim coach says we should all watch our carbs. Kinda blew that on your garlic mashed potatoes and the birthday cake, huh? But maybe I’ll take Lacy to this Grimaldi’s, if you think it’s hot. She’d get a kick out of a date in Dumbo.”

Dumbo referred to Down Under the Manhattan Brooklyn Overpass, a Brooklyn neighborhood that stretched to Manhattan across the East River. More than one hundred years ago it was called Fulton Landing because of the ferry stop that operated before the Brooklyn Bridge opened. In those early years it was filled with warehouses and factories. Through the decades that changed to primarily residential blocks with coveted loft apartments, art galleries, non-profit centers, and trendy restaurants.

Now a historic district, Bridget’s destination was one of the oldest buildings that still actually functioned as a warehouse. The taxi had stopped honking, the delivery truck finally moving on. A siren cut in, and the flashing blue light of an unmarked police sedan bounced off the windows of parked cars. Bridget stood still until the sedan passed.

A boat out on the river sounded a long, low note. Another car started honking, and Bridget pointed at a dirt-brown building. “This is it.”

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s here,” Otter said.

“This time of night, that’s the way it’s supposed to look.” Bridget led them through an alley too narrow to drive a car down and to a thick, steel side door. There was an electric key pad, and Bridget punched in a lengthy string of numbers, tugged the door open, and gestured Dustin and Otter inside.

It was well-lit, a fact hid to the outside world because of blackened windows. Big crates formed walls branching away from the center like the spokes on a wheel. The cavernous building smelled of old stone and dust.

“Do you own all this?” Otter craned his neck this way and that.

“Bought it two years go. Just the building,” Bridget said. “The crates belong to some of the shops down here—we rent storage space to them. There’s a loading platform in the back.”

“Makes the place seem legit, huh?” Otter gave his mother a knowing nod. “Makes you the respectable businesswoman.”

“And it brings in a respectable income.” Bridget took the closest passage, then turned and directed them to the back.

A half-dozen folding tables that stretched end to end were covered with an assortment of objects, some of which glittered under the fluorescent lights.

Otter rushed forward. “Wow.” He stopped just short of barreling into a table and stuck his hands in his pockets and whistled.

Four men came out of the shadows, and Bridget indicated that the boy and Dustin were her guests.

“Double wow,” Otter said. “This shit looks old.”

Bridget took in the display. “This is it?” She didn’t hide her disappointment. “I expected more from this shipment. Last month I was told—”

“Boss, the mate said not everything got loaded. Said Spanish and Italian cops were crawling through Genoa looking for cocaine smugglers. Captain didn’t want to get caught in the net by accident, so he left before the big pieces came on. Said that stuff is probably long gone. But he said this was the best of the lot anyway. Looks like this is worth a crapload.”

“Triple wow.” Otter seemed oblivious to the conversation and tentatively reached forward, stirring some old coins in a box.

“Hey—” one of the men warned.

“Some cool stuff, boss, don’t you think? Said come late spring he’d make another run for you. And we got the ship coming in from England in a week with some paintings, and then the one from France after that. So, do you want—” Bridget waved him off, and the man stepped back.

“No, not bad then, considering,” Bridget decided. “Definitely not bad.” She’d been shorted before because of problems in port; smuggling was often a crapshoot. At first glance she estimated that these goods could bring in four to five million, with thirty three percent going back to the captain, who had some expenses on his end, and another fifteen percent divided among Bridget’s crew. Bridget had other costs to take out of it too, but in the end she was certain to pocket at least a million for herself.

Bridget went to the first table, Dustin close enough behind her she could smell the scent of his soap. She cleared her mind and let the heavy silence of the warehouse close in. Bridget had spared no expense in having the building soundproofed so the city noise did not slip inside; nor did sounds from within travel out. The resulting quiet was eerie and thick, and helped Bridget focus and call up her talent.

A quartz bottle stopper capped with an oval cut sapphire caught her eye. She held her palm above it. Then lower, lower, until her skin touched the crystal.

She let the magic take over.

“Show me,” she whispered.

An image formed behind her eyes, of an artisan chipping away at the sapphire, polishing it, then another man setting the finished gem into the housing of the stopper. The image shifted and a manic, yet regal-looking man came to the fore. Bridget absorbed the face and dipped deeper.

“Rurik,” she said. The stopper had been crafted for Rurik in … she strained to get the information … 872. He was a Varangian chieftain who gained power over Lagoda ten years prior and went on to found the Rurik Dynasty, which ruled Russia until the seventeenth century. The history of the piece rushed at her now. The stopper was presented as a birthday gift along with a case containing three bottles of plum wine from the vineyards of a monastery. Rurik, a pagan, had served the “Christian brew” to his servants because he feared one of the monks had poisoned it. There was no sheet detailing any this information, but Bridget had “read” it clearly nonetheless because of her arcane sight.

With a little more effort Bridget saw Rurik’s age-spotted hand touching the bottle stopper, holding it up to admire the facets caught in the sunlight spilling through the window of the chieftain’s sitting room. There was pleasure in the man’s wild eyes; he seemed to delight in shiny things. Today, Bridget placed the stopper’s value at $11,700. Her gift of psychometry let her see—in her mind’s eye—not only the person who had owned a thing or touched it or crafted it, but the actual worth of it. And she always translated that worth into today’s American coinage. It wasn’t automatic or unconscious—she couldn’t simply touch a thing and discover its past. She had to center herself and concentrate before her mind could pull in the details.

Near the stopper was a heavy silver comb dotted with tiny pearls. Her palm hovered above it. Ufanda, Rurik’s wife, used this, inherited it from her mother Umila. Bridget felt the beautiful Ufanda dragging it through her thick hair as she hummed a dissonant melody. Value in today’s market, more because of its pure silver content rather than historical merit: $700.

Another elaborate comb, made of ivory and with a tine missing, could bring $400 from a collector if Bridget could prove the provenance of the tsar’s family. Other trinkets from the same lot, a bulky cameo on a silver chain: $2,800; a battered brass chalice festooned with mismatched pieces of topaz once belonging to Rurik’s grandfather Gostomysl: $2,100; a bronze cup set with a single large canary diamond also once held by Gostomysl: $38,500 for the stone alone; two balsa-rimmed mirrors inlaid with gold and ivory: $1,700 for the pair. Bridget saw Vadim, Rurik’s cousin, stealing the mirrors from the bedchamber of a young woman who had refused his drunken advances.

There wasn’t a single document to explain the age or significance of any piece. Bridget’s gift precluded a need for such and let her differentiate originals from clever copies. She’d come into her “sight” when she was a little younger than Otter, but it took her a few years to fully develop it and understand that there was real magic in the world.

She had briefly considered taking on a legitimate job because of her amazing talent—museum curator, archaeologist, historian. There was so much trafficking in stolen and forged artifacts that her gift to determine genuine from fake would have been put to a good use.

But all of those occupations required an advanced college degree to back her up, and Bridget had never finished high school. By the time a friend suggested she could pay to have forged whatever diploma she needed, Bridget had decided that smuggling and brokering for the Westies was more interesting.… and allowed her to keep the choicest pieces.

There were more belongings of the Russian family: a chalice, two swords, a bejeweled glove with the leather rotted, a mug with crudely cut emerald inlays, a gold anklet that once belonging to Rurik’s raven-haired mistress, a wood horse the size of a pumpkin; Bridget felt the hands of Rurik’s young son carving it.

All interesting and all able to be sold above and below the counter in her Fort Greene antiques shop, but nothing truly outstanding. Perhaps the goods on one of the other tables could yield more.

“See anything here you’d like for your birthday, Otter?”

“Anything? I can have anything?”

“Of course.” Bridget hoped the boy would not realize the value of some of the oldest pieces and would make a selection based solely on appearance. Still, tonight she was prepared to give away whatever caught her son’s fancy.

“What about this?” Otter was several feet away, looking at a table filled with ornamental swords and daggers. Bridget sensed that they had once belonged to French nobles. She would have to get closer to pinpoint which weapon had been carried by which man. The boy held up a thin-bladed sword with rubies and citrines set into the hilt. “This is awesome.”

Bridget joined him and concentrated on the piece. “Curious.” The fingers of her left hand grazed the hilt and for an instant the air smelled of an overly sweet perfume. This was the one piece in the collection not owned by a French nobleman.

“This was actually a woman’s, Otter.” After a moment’s focus she gained a name. “Diane de Poitiers, mistress to King Henri II.” Bridget placed its value, for its history and gems, at $89,800. She hoped her son would select something else, as she knew a sword collector in Manhattan who would buy it.

“A woman’s sword, huh?” Otter laid it down, apparently no longer interested. “Hey, look at this over here! This is kinda cool.” He hefted a silver chalice. A mix of dark and faint blue stones were set in a fleur-de-lis pattern. “French, I take it. King Henri’s? Or one of his mistresses?”

“Eventually Henri’s.” Bridget concentrated and sorted through the images that came at her. “Henri’s grandfather owned that first, then his brother, then eventually Henri.”

“I could set this on my desk at home. Too pretty to drink out of. But I could put pens and pencils in it.”

Bridget smiled. The faint colored stones were blue-white diamonds, their size and clarity making the piece exceptional. It was, perhaps, the single most valuable piece on this table, perhaps of everything in the warehouse: $151,000 would have been her asking price. Maybe Otter had inherited some of Bridget’s skills after all.

“I like it, Mom. I’ll take this cup-thing,” Otter said, the grin wide on his face. “Okay? Of course I know not to show it to anyone, ’cept Dad. I won’t even show it to Lacy. None of this stuff … well … someone’s probably looking for it, right?”

The majority of the items on the tables were stolen from the basements of museums and collections from estates, certainly none gained through any proper channels, else they would not be here, Bridget knew.

“Someone could be looking, yes,” Bridget agreed. “But they’ll forget about it after a while.”
If they even remembered owning the pieces in the first place.
She knew that some of those estates and museums had so much inventory, they might never notice what was missing.

“Years,” Otter supplied. “A lot of years, I’d bet, they’d be looking. Well, they won’t think to look in Dad’s condo. Thanks for the cup, Mom.”

Bridget walked to the next table. She absorbed the history of the collection, discarding various images and locking on the visage of a fat, elderly man who seemed important and who had owned all of this lot. Bridget saw expressions flit across the heavily-lined face: anger, pleasure, sadness, confusion was the most prominent.

“A troubled man,” Bridget decided. The ill-tempered portly fellow had a thin beard and moustache and fancied wearing elaborate collars that hid his thick neck. As Bridget’s fingers brushed first a cloak clasp in the shape of a wolf’s head, next a carving kinfe and fork, then a pipe bowl, and finally a ring, a name came to her: Albrecht Friedrich, a Prussian duke in the 1500s who had seven children. Bridget sensed that Eleanor was the duke‘s favorite, fifth-born and always in his thoughts, dying at age twenty-three while she gave birth to what would have been her first child. Bridget took on the duke’s grief, then cast it aside, felt the man’s smooth fingers wrap around the handle of the carving knife. Then she reached deeper and felt the duke’s hunger and anticipation of a holiday meal. More, and she absorbed a disturbing twinge of … what? … Bridget directed all her attention to the collection, shutting out the pleasant scent of Dustin’s soap and the sound of her son’s continued oohing and ahing. What?