Uptown Thief (21 page)

“Money?” He pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. “Hurry.”

Marisol took the envelope. “Can I get my clothes on?”

“No time,” VanDyke said. “You can't be here when the police arrive. Things always leak to the press. For the moment, I'm assuming that you had nothing to do with this. If my team finds any evidence to the contrary, I will prosecute.”

“What?” Marisol said. “I wouldn't—”

VanDyke cut her off. “She can get dressed in the limo.” He handed her dress, her coat, and her other shoe to the driver. “Get her out of here now.” He turned to Marisol.

“Jeremy,” Marisol said. “Just lemme put my—”

VanDyke turned and spoke to her as if to a dense and disobedient child. “I said, there's no time for that.”

“I'm supposed to walk out of here naked?” she asked, all Lower East Side attitude.

“Spare me the false modesty,” VanDyke said. “I've certainly paid enough that a few of my staff can see you. We're done here.” He turned his eyes to his phone and began dialing.

Marisol's fist clenched around the crumpled bra and panties.

“What are you waiting for?” VanDyke snapped at the driver.

The driver took Marisol's arm and marched her out the door. Several of the security guards did a double-take.

Marisol stood naked in front of five men in uniform. She didn't meet any of their eyes. She could feel blood rushing to her neck, her face.

“I'm sorry VanDyke is such an asshole,” the driver murmured to her in Spanish, and tried to pull the dress up in front of her body.

She snatched the dress and flung it over her shoulder, strutting down the hallway, with one breast out, like an Amazon, pulling him along. The humiliation burned beneath her surface.

Her grandmother used to cook
lechon
like that—she would slay the pig, then bury it in the ground with hot coals.

* * *

At the bottom of the stairs, Marisol put her dress on. When she got back into the limo, the driver was so flustered, he shut the door on her stiletto heel and broke it. He began to apologize, but she raised a hand to silence him.

She sent a text to her team that said:
leaving now
, and leaned back in the seat, jaw tight.

She was still fuming silently when the limo pulled up in front of the same Central Park East apartment building the driver had picked her up from. Neither of them had spoken throughout the ride. She kept her phone face-up in her lap, looking for the all-clear signal from her team.

“Keep going uptown,” she told him.

He nodded and pulled away from the curb, letting her direct him to a bar in Washington Heights.

Marisol limped out of the limo and into the bar.

The clock on the wall with the faded Dominican flag read 1:47 a.m.

“ID, miss?” the bouncer asked.

“My purse got stolen,” she said.

“Sorry, miss, we need ID.”

The place had a low ceiling and was smoky, despite the ordinance against smoking in bars. It was more than half empty, and they still had Christmas lights and a little neon “
¡Feliz Navidad!
” It looked pathetic this late after the holidays.

Marisol couldn't believe they were carding her in this dump. “Do I look underage?”

“Do I look like this is optional?”

“Fuck you!” she spat and left.

She hobbled down the street to the second place. It was her least favorite in Washington Heights. Seedier spot, watered-down drinks, sleazier guys. She saw a couple of girls who were definitely working. They looked her up and down and grimaced.

Marisol went straight to the bathroom, which was dark and smelled like piss. There was more toilet paper on the floor than in the dispenser. She looked at herself in the mirror through the scratched-on graffiti. Her hair was a mess, and her eyeliner had seeped down to make hollows beneath her eyes. She ran her fingers through her hair to shape it, and wiped off the excess eye makeup. The top of the dress was okay, had pressed itself with the heat of her body. Just the skirt was irredeemably wrinkled. She could wear the coat down off her shoulders. Which also worked to cover the broken shoe. She still looked hot.

She sat down on a stool at the bar. The place had begun to clear out. No one came over to buy her a drink. She ordered a glass of rum.

“Hola, mami
.
”
She noticed that the guy had on way too many gold chains, as he slid onto the bar stool next to her. “What's your name?”

“Can you fuck?” she asked him in Spanish. “I don't have time for bullshit.”

“Yeah, I can fuck.” He looked more startled than excited.

“In a condom? Can you fuck with a condom on?”

“I think I can manage,” he said.

“Lemme pay for my drink and I'll meet you in the bathroom.” She downed the rum and pulled out a ten-dollar bill.

On her way to the bathroom, she heard a phone ring across the bar. Was her phone on?

She fished it out of her pocket, and there was the text, a winking face from Tyesha that had been sent fifteen minutes before—the “all clear” sign.

She laughed out loud with relief and did an about-face, limping out of the bar.

* * *

Marisol came in through the clinic's alley door, carrying her broken invincibility shoes in her hand. Her bare feet thudded gently on the wooden steps as she ascended. She pulled up the hem of the rumpled dress as she climbed past the community room, clinic offices, and exam rooms.

In the lobby of her fourth-floor office, everything was quiet. Yet when she opened the office door, she faced off with Jody and Tyesha, guns drawn.

“What the fuck?” Marisol asked, her heart banging in her throat.

“Thank God it's you,” Kim gasped, as the two other women lowered their guns.

“You didn't get my text?” Marisol asked, collapsing on the couch.

“An hour ago,” Tyesha said, laying the automatic on the table. “VanDyke's place is only fifteen minutes away.”

“We came straight here after we left his apartment,” Kim said.

“We thought something happened,” Jody said.

“I'm fine,” Marisol said. “Let's see what we got.”

She picked up the two heavy duffels of cash and heaved them onto the desk. Her heart began to race again. “Are the bricks hundreds or twenties?” Marisol asked.

“We just grabbed everything in there,” Tyesha said. “And you said not to open it until you got here.”

As Marisol unzipped the duffels, Tyesha locked the door behind them, and Kim pulled the shades. All four women peered into the bags.

Benjamin Franklin stared up at them from a hundred different angles. Apparently, the cash was in ten-thousand-dollar bricks. Each compact packet held one hundred, crisp hundred-dollar bills.

“Holy shit,” Jody said.

“There's at least four million here,” Marisol breathed.

They counted the bricks. Marisol had underestimated by half.

* * *

An hour later, they'd emptied a bottle of rum, and Tyesha's impressions of VanDyke had everyone in hysterics.

“I demand to see the manager,” Tyesha sputtered. “I did not order a tie-up by two men. I ordered a woman to fuck me and listen to my long, narcissistic monologue afterward.”

The women's laughter filled the office. Marisol howled until tears ran down her cheeks. Jody sat on one of the armchairs with Kim on her lap. The two women laughed against each other, unable to sit up straight. Tyesha nearly spit out her last drink of rum. It took over ten minutes for the hysteria to subside.

When they could all breathe again, they felt spent from the buildup and release of tension. But still high from the sight of the money. Eight million. Cash. All theirs.

“You all,” Marisol said, heaving herself off the couch, “are the best fucking team any woman could hope for.”

* * *

After she sent them home, she carried the duffels up to her apartment.

She closed all the blinds, and crept across to the kitchenette island. Moving aside the two tall stools, she pried off the plywood front of the island counter.

When she'd redone the apartment, she had a shallow false back built. Empty until now. She put the panel aside and stacked the bricks of cash into tall columns.

She looked up at the graduation picture of Cristina. “Not bad, huh?”

She replaced the plywood. The exterior of the island looked the same. But now, she would drink her coffee inches away from a fortune.

“The team knows how much we got,” she told Cristina's photo. “But you're the only one I'm showing where I put it.”

Chapter 21

O
n Friday, two days after the heist, the team met in the deli across from the clinic. As they ate, they scanned the papers and the Internet for any news of the heist. Not a word.

“I paid off the clinic mortgage today,” Marisol said. “After a certain donation check went through.”

“We're free and clear?” Tyesha asked.

“The clinic building at least,” Marisol said, as Jody's phone rang.

Jody stepped outside.

“What the fuck?!” they heard Jody yell into the phone.

“What's that about?” Tyesha asked.

“If it's who I think it is,” Kim said, “that girl is toast.”

Through the plate-glass window, Kim, Marisol, and Tyesha could hear Jody screaming into the phone: “Whitman, you've been a VERY bad boy! You're in big trouble, do you hear me? . . . Now you are NOT going to do anything like that. You're going to do EXACTLY as I say. When I hang up this phone, you're going to call the doctor. And tell him what you just told me . . . NO EXCUSES! DO IT NOW!”

Jody returned. “Sorry about that,” she said sheepishly.

“I can't believe you,” Kim said. “After giving me shit about Mr. Potato Head wanting free time, but you just gave Whitman a free domme session.”

“On the phone,” Jody said. “Less than a minute.”

“Lotta people charge by the minute,” Tyesha said. “You're undervaluing your services.”

“And setting a serious double standard,” Kim said.

“Look,” Jody said. “Every six months or so, the guy goes off his meds, and he gets all suicidal and calls me. So I yell at him a little and make him call his doctor. Then he's fine. It's like a public service.”

“That rich guy doesn't need your charity,” Kim said. “Doesn't he have his own foundation?”

“He calls every six months,” Jody said. “I'm not setting up a phone sex operation for two calls a year.”

“Not cost-effective,” Marisol said.

“Not fair,” Kim said. “The next time MPH calls, I don't want to hear shit from you. Not one fucking word.”

“That's different—” Jody began.

“Not really—” Marisol broke off as she saw something through the front window. “Gotta go.” She dropped fifteen dollars on the table.

As Marisol crossed the street, Eva stepped out of the clinic with an arm around Dulce.

“I told Dr. Feldman not to interrupt you,” Dulce said.

“I would never let you go without saying good-bye,” Marisol said as she embraced the girl. She had texted something encouraging to Dulce every day since she'd arrived at the clinic. After letting go from the hug, she smoothed Dulce's hair back from her forehead where the cut had nearly healed.
“Tú eres preciosa,”
she said. “Do you hear me? More valuable than money or diamonds or anything.”

Dulce beamed under Marisol's words, and tears ran down her cheeks.

Marisol could feel her own eyes beginning to well up.

“Remember,” Eva said to Dulce. “Your world is full of choices now, and we'll always be here for you.”

“Is Eva taking you to the safe house?” Marisol asked, blinking back the tears.

Dulce shook her head. “I wanna visit my grandma before I leave town.”

“Are you sure?” Marisol asked. The first mistake with a guy like Jerry was to drop your guard. Marisol would never have gotten free of her uncle if she'd underestimated him.

“My
abuela
's in her nineties,” Dulce said. “If I don't visit now, I may never see her again.”

Marisol kissed Dulce's cheek. “Good luck,
mi amor
.”

Head high, Dulce strode down the busy street toward the subway.

“I worry less about them when they walk in half-dead than when they strut back out,” Eva said.

Marisol nodded. “Pretty faces and short memories.”

“How'd it go this morning with VanDyke?” Eva asked.

“He didn't come in person,” Marisol said. “His head of security came and questioned me about the robbery. Asked what I saw, then insinuated that they might suspect me.”

“What'd you say?” Eva asked.

“I acted outraged, and what could he say to that?” Marisol recalled her exact words: “First I get tied up in a robbery. Then that asshole sends me out of his bedroom naked, and now he's acting like I was somehow involved? Tell your boss to go fuck himself. Oh, and— not like you asked or anything—the police did recover my purse. Thanks for your concern.”

* * *

Later that day, Marisol sat in her office attempting to create a paper trail for several large sums of cash, when Serena buzzed to say that Raul Barrios was there to see her.

“Show him in,” Marisol said.

Raul had on an old-school nylon sweat suit with matching navy blue sneakers and carried an athletic bag. Marisol had the impulse to run her finger along the bag's strap across his chest, from one broad shoulder to the opposite narrow hip. She worried she just might grab him and have him right there on her desk.

“I know you're busy,” he said. “I just have a question about your fund-raising.”

“I really appreciate your continued interest in the clinic,” she said. “Our organization depends on the generosity of our volunteers and donors.”

“Are you sure about that?” Raul asked.

“About what?” Marisol asked.

“Maybe the organization depends on the ingenuity of its executive director,” Raul said. “I ended up consulting with Central Robbery. Maybe not all your donors are intentional.”

“What are you talking about?” Marisol asked, all the heat draining out of her.

“NYPD couldn't find links between all those uptown burglaries,” he said. “So I started looking at the partial links.”

“Let me guess,” Marisol said with a laugh. “Several of the burglary victims were former sex workers who had come in to the clinic.”

“You know that's not it,” Raul said. “A lot of the victims had the same IT consultant.”

“And she was a former sex worker who came to our clinic?” Marisol said.

“No, he was a guy, and the closest link they had,” Raul said.

“Just because he was a guy doesn't mean he wasn't a sex worker,” Marisol said.

“Not much demand for short, middle-aged balding guys.”

“Maybe it's a fetish niche,” Marisol said.

“I went to his office,” Raul said. “And what did I see on his desk, but a photo of him and his ‘girlfriend,' Kim.”

“You're here accusing me of robbery because someone you met here is dating the IT guy of some of the people who got robbed?” Marisol asked. “What is that? Like, ten degrees of separation?”

“I'm here because he told me he went to parties at all of the apartments that were robbed,” he said. “I'm here because he's an ongoing donor to your clinic at the rate of ten thousand dollars a month.”

“Are you saying he robbed those places and is donating the money to our clinic?” she asked.

“Of course not,” Raul said. “He made the money in IT and took Kim to all those parties. Kim is way too young and hot to be his girlfriend, especially when she's obviously Jody's girlfriend.”

“She's not exclusive with Jody,” Marisol said.

“Obviously,” Raul said. “Because she's a sex worker. Maybe Jody, too. I think the ten-thousand-dollar donation is paying for Kim's services.”

“I don't—” Marisol began.

“Were you at Jeremy VanDyke's house the night he was robbed?” Raul asked.

Marisol's mouth fell open.

“We know VanDyke had a date that night. Was it you? Don't look at me like I'm crazy. I know he was into you at the gala. And you said you're not dating anyone else.”

“Whoa.” Marisol put a hand up to stop him. “What's happening here?”

“Okay, I get it. You don't have to say anything,” Raul said. “I'm not sure how you did it, but I know it was you. My sister always said you were a genius in math class. I never knew why you didn't go to college.”

“Raul, you're crazy.” She forced a laugh.

“Central Robbery was totally stumped,” he said. “Of course the cops missed it, because they didn't recognize the guy's girlfriend. And wasn't she on your . . . what did you call them? Your ‘outreach team'?” He grinned. “More like ‘alternative fund-raising committee.'”

“Raul, I have to—”

“Work, I know.” He popped up from his chair. “I just came to congratulate you for becoming the stickup kid I always dreamed of being.”

He gave her a half smile, and walked out of the room, leaving Marisol stunned.

* * *

She called her team for an emergency meeting.

“We need to pull a few more jobs ASAP,” Marisol said.

“I thought VanDyke was the final one,” Tyesha said.

“We've hit a snag,” Marisol said. “An ex-cop is able to link the burglaries to us via Kim's client.”

“Does he want a payoff?” Kim asked.

“Who knows what the hell he wants,” Marisol said.

“Raul?” Jody asked.

Marisol nodded. “He just—”

“Did you ever hook up with him?” Kim asked.

“Of course not. I just—he didn't set off my cop radar. He seemed . . . genuine. I mean, I considered dating him until I learned his ex-partner was investigating our burglaries.
Coño!
”

“Don't get all confused straight girl on us now, Marisol,” Jody said. “Those broad shoulders are clouding your judgment.”

“Jody, please,” Marisol said. “Me? You know how I get down: ‘Hoes before bros.'”

“Right,” Jody said. “Sorry.”

“The situation is under control,” Marisol said. “I've got a plan. We need to hit two or three uptown Manhattan safes, with our usual MO. Guys who can't be linked to Kim's client in any way. Just to muddy the waters. But we have to do the recon as quickly as we can.”

“I've got one,” Tyesha said. “Asshole owner of the gentlemen's club I worked at. I used to hook up with his son. He showed me the safe to impress me.”

Jody rolled her eyes. “Rich boys and their daddy issues.”

“Do you remember enough about the apartment to set up a hit?” Marisol asked.

“Definitely,” Tyesha said.

“Count me in for revenge burglaries,” Kim said. “We could do the guy's house my mom used to clean.”

“Didn't they get her deported?” Tyesha asked.

“When she insisted on minimum wage,” Kim said. “Fuckers. I know that apartment like the back of my hand. All the days I spent there while my mom scrubbed the floors.”

“You sure they wouldn't suspect her?”

“She's been in Korea for eight years,” Kim said. “And we have different last names. The cops would never put it together.”

“Great,” Marisol said. “We'll look into both of those leads. Meanwhile, Tyesha and Jody, I'll pay you each the standard escort rate to pick up wealthy guys until you find three good prospects.”

“What?” Tyesha asked. “We get to fuck whoever we want and you'll pay us?”

“As long as they have money, and you fuck them in their apartments to scope the place for a safe.”

“How come I can't get in on it?” Kim asked.

“Sorry,” Marisol said. “Raul already suspects you're casing the apartments. And Tyesha and Jody, I want you disguised. Change your hair color. Dark bars. Lights low at their places. If the cops show photos later, I don't want positive IDs, but I hope it won't come to that. Let's start tonight.”

“What are you gonna do about Raul?” Jody asked.

“I'll tell you what,” Tyesha said. “Fuck his brains out. Make him think twice about turning you in.”

“Not a bad idea,” Jody said.

“Worse ways to spend an evening than with a hunk like that,” Kim said.

* * *

Later that night, while Tyesha and Jody were looking for rich guys to pick up, Marisol pulled Raul's address from the volunteer file. No one answered his doorbell, so Kim and Marisol stood watch on either end of his block. Marisol sat at a bus shelter, and Kim huddled on the steps of a nearby building.

They'd been there a few hours, when Marisol got a two-ring signal on her phone. She quickly stepped out onto the sidewalk, carrying a pair of large shopping bags. She recognized Raul's tall, broad-shouldered form walking toward her down the block.

“Marisol?” Raul said as he got closer. “Is that you?”

“Raul?” She pretended to squint into the gloomy evening to recognize him.

“Let me help you with those bags,” he said.

“No.” She waved him away. “The clinic is only a few blocks down.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Which is why it's no trouble to help you.”

“Thanks,” she said. “You're such a Boy Scout.”

“I was going for more of a supermarket Superman,” he said.

Marisol laughed. “Everybody loves a hero.”

“Or is it just brainwashing?” Raul asked. “I'm one of those guys who grew up with comic books. Big, stoic guys going around rescuing everybody.”

“And women with painted-on clothes,” Marisol added.

“Yeah,” Raul said, laughing. “And can I just say that shit was confusing for a Puerto Rican kid? My dad had this comic book collection that dated back to the late fifties. All the usual ones, Superman, Batman, but also these Robin Hood comics.”