30

THE HEIST (REPRISE)

It’s a shame Grant isn’t my date to the ball tonight, because I look freaking amazing.

I haven’t been in the right frame of mind to apologize to Tara for believing her to be the Peep-Toe Prowler all these weeks, so I passed on her offer of a dress loan, opting instead to use Jane as my guide. She was happy to take me and happier still to foot the bill, which was nice but not at all necessary.

We walked into Barneys—my choice—where she moved straight to the most beautiful dress in the place and said we were done.

“But it’s red,” I pointed out, even as I admired the slinky material. I look great in slinky. “I thought everyone was going to be in black or white. That’s what I’m supposed to wear.”

“That’s all the more reason not to, don’t you think? If I could still pull it off, I’d do it. Just imagine the looks on their faces. It’ll be fun.”

Again, I agreed. Most of the time, my goal would be to blend in the night of a big heist, to slither around like a shadow, but I need to make sure everyone sees me there—or, rather, that they see the man escorting me. Christopher Leon might be able to wipe a video feed while the FBI’s back is turned, but even he can’t change the firsthand reports of several hundred witnesses.

“It is beautiful…” I said, trailing my fingers over the fabric.

Jane was all decision. “Then this is the one you want. You’re a size four? Don’t look so surprised—your mom was, too. I was always jealous of how easy she made it look. She wore a red dress just like this to prom.”

Flustered by the reference to my mother, I accepted both the compliment and the dress.

I’m in it now as I wait for Christopher to arrive, my hair piled on top of my head and secured by about fifty bobby pins. Half of them stab my head any time I make a sudden movement, but it feels good knowing they’re there. That’s fifty lock-picking kits no one will question me having in my possession.

Plus, the coiled loops of my hair are strategically placed to hide the small transmitter behind my right ear. I’m hooked up and plugged in to an alarmingly high-tech federal communication system that Mariah and Cheryl stole from the office.

Those women had way more fun with this than national security allows.

I also have Cheryl’s letter opener strapped to one thigh and my red peep-toe heels on, but those parts go without saying. The shiv is for my safety—Cheryl insisted on it—and the shoes, while not functional, were a gift from my husband, who’s still lying in a hospital bed with his beautiful body torn open.

Forget functionality. I’m wearing the goddamned shoes.

Christopher arrives precisely on time, looking as handsome and nervous as if he’s picking me up for a real date. I can tell as soon as I open the front door that his tuxedo is one he owns, tailored to his body and pulled out for many such occasions.

He’s done this before. He does this all the time.

It’s that realization, more than the image of Grant, that has me greeting him with a semblance of calm. This is the last time Christopher Leon puts on a tux and pretends to be something he’s not.

“Oh, you look so nice!” I say in a tone that anyone who knows me would recognize as a clear and patent lie. “You FBI agents sure do clean up well.”

A dark flash fills his eyes, and I’m reminded how important it is to tread lightly. “I’m not an FBI agent tonight.”

Of course he’s not. And if all goes well, he never will be again.

“You can take the badge away from the man, but you can’t take the man away from the badge,” I say breezily. It’s true, too. I doubt even decades away from the job would force Grant to budge so much as an inch. “But let’s not think about that tonight. I’ve been cooped up inside the hospital for days. I don’t know about you, but I feel a need to stretch my wings.”

* * *

Christopher pulls his muscle car up to valet parking right on time.

Almost everything about the Conrad Museum’s exterior looks the same as it did before, save for the expensive cars spewing out well-dressed men and women and the two large, intimidating men at the door checking off the guest list. The bouncers are standard protocol at an event of this magnitude, and they’re possible to circumnavigate only by begging your grandmother to add a few fake names to the list without asking questions about it.

Of course, if you zoom out a little, things take on a more interesting light. To the left, a few feet away from an ATM machine on the side of the bank, a masked magician and his middle-aged assistant are setting up. It’s an odd time of night and an even stranger location for a street show, but people are already pausing to watch them work. Clad in crushed velvet and with a swatch of black hair—a lock of which keeps falling over his eye—the magician looks exactly like the dark, brooding sort to put on a good show.

How much magic Riker actually knows is anyone’s guess, though I suspect his fast hands will lend themselves well to the task. Not that it matters. The tricks don’t have to be good. They just have to include a few well-timed smoke bombs to guarantee obscured vision—including electronic vision—for a full thirty minutes.

Cheryl gave Riker his smoke after all.

“That’s a strange place for a street magician,” Christopher murmurs as we make our way past the pair. Riker’s mask renders him unidentifiable, and Cheryl looks like a completely different person in sequins and a long blond wig, so I’m not too worried about him making the connection.

“Isn’t it?” I ask blithely. “I wonder what made them set up there. They’re going to be in everyone’s way. People can’t even get to the ATM machine.”

I’d rather he not spend too much time questioning their presence—yet—so I wind my arm through his and steer him past the guards.

“Do you do this sort of thing often?” Christopher asks. “The high society functions, I mean?”

“I have been lately,” I say. “They’re more interesting than you think—you’d be surprised what you can get away with.”

He turns his head in sudden interest, but I catch sight of my favorite mustachioed museum curator and beeline straight for him.

“Pierre!” I say with genuine pleasure. If he looked dapper before, he’s downright quixotic now. He’s in tails—actual tails—and the bright white of the vest underneath his tuxedo jacket looks like something out of a 1920s gangster movie. He also looks like he’s in a gangster movie, but not as the guy with the tommy gun. He’s definitely the guy on the other end, nervous and trying not to show it.

Poor man. I wish I could reassure him that he has seven talented people looking out for him tonight. You couldn’t ask for a better personal security team.

“Ah, the beautiful Liliana Dupont returns,” he replies with a shake of his head. “Though I suppose it’s not fair to keep calling you that. You’re quite lovely in your own right.”

“Pierre knew my mother when they were younger,” I explain to my date. “He thinks I look like her.”

“Then she must have been very pretty,” Christopher replies with an easy promptness that robs the compliment of its value.

Pierre is wearing white gloves to match his outfit, but that’s a nonissue. A carefully disguised Oz came by to look at the contents of the first floor of the museum yesterday, and the chemical formula Jordan concocted was transferred to Pierre’s hand via handshake. After that, all Oz had to do was reach in his pocket and toy with the elevator’s remote controls, which he did before the chemical wore off. Pierre, alarmed at the malfunctioning elevator, promptly went upstairs to check on his beloved collection.

With any luck, the UV flashlight currently tucked down the front of my bra will show us not only the numbers on the keypad, but the order in which they were used.

I only wish the crew had been half as inventive when it came to getting their hands on his key card. No amount of brainstorming provided a way to get that card, replicate it, and return it within the small window of time we had. And my friends’ old plan had been discarded as soon as Mariah pried it out of them.

It was Tara, of course. She would have been sent to seduce it out of him.

Since no one except Cheryl offered to step in and take her place, it’s up to me to get my hands on it tonight before I slip upstairs. I’m guessing, from the way Pierre keeps nervously patting his chest, that it’s tucked into an interior pocket.

It’s not great news. The curator is nice and all, but we’re not on such good terms that I can run my hands up his torso without giving myself away.

Pierre catches sight of another guest and goes off to greet them, so Christopher offers me his arm and escorts me toward the food tables near the back. For reasons I’m sure only my grandmother understands, they used a circus theme for the appetizers as well as the charity. The shrimp are arranged in literal rings of fire.

“Your mom must have been rich if she grew up in all this,” Christopher says as he passes over the flaming food in favor of a glass of champagne, which he gulps in one quick motion.

“Yeah, but she gave it up for love,” I say. “You have to admire her for that.”

He eyes me askance.

It’s not difficult for me to interpret that look. “My dad has money now, but it wasn’t always like that,” I say defensively. “We had our share of lean times. Besides, when he married my mom, he always planned to give up his criminal ways. He never got the chance, that’s all.”

Christopher pauses. “It takes a lot of strength to walk away like that.”

It doesn’t take strength, I want to tell him. It takes superhuman capabilities. Superhuman capabilities that I, unfortunately, don’t have. I feel more alive right now than I have in ages.

“Penelope, there you are!” My attention is pulled away by my grandmother, who hails me from the small crowd gathered around her. She’s wearing her regular pantsuit—I swear that woman never wears anything else—but this one is white and dressed up with a sequined blouse and a gleaming string of pearls I would have advised her to leave safely locked up at home. “I must say I was worried about how you’d turn out, but you look almost presentable this evening. Flashy and obvious, but presentable.”

“Jane helped pick my dress,” I say modestly and nod at the woman in question. Unlike me, she’s opted for black. Her dress has a full, puffed skirt that stops just above the knee, fifties-style. I wonder if it’s an homage to the collection upstairs. “You look great, by the way.”

“So does your date,” Jane says pointedly. I remember, too late for manners, that Christopher is standing patiently by my side awaiting an introduction. To be honest, he’s more of a burden than a date at this point. It would be so much easier if I could stash him in a closet until I’m ready to make my way upstairs to lure him into the trap.

Which, if the melting clock/artwork installation is to be believed, is soon. Crap. I need to get that card from Pierre.

As if to remind me of the ticking clock, I hear a tinny buzz and then the soft sound of Jordan’s voice announcing that Riker’s smoke bomb has just gone off. T minus thirty minutes and counting.

I make a round of hasty introductions, hoping the well-bred inanities required in this sort of situation will leave me enough time to scan the room for Oz and Simon. I know they’re here, mingling among the guests under assumed names, but they’re either hiding where I can’t see them or putting the final touches into place.

Help. I need help.

It comes from an unlikely source.

“Who are you looking for?” Jane asks, watching me as my eyes roam the floor of the museum for the second time. “Your friend Olivia? I saw her earlier—she’s in a frothy white gown that looks like a puff pastry. You can’t miss her.”

“No, I was hoping to talk to Pierre.”

“Pierre?” Her eyes open wider. “Whatever for?”

“I, uh—” I hadn’t thought that far ahead, actually.

She hands me yet another out. “You’re going to see what else he can tell you about your mom, aren’t you? You’re so sweet. Remind me to introduce you to that woman standing by the champagne fountain later. She was another friend of ours, and she’s eager to meet you.”

I flash a grateful smile, feeling like a traitor. These people have nothing but fondness and affection for the memory my mother left behind—and by extension, have nothing but fondness and affection for me. Yet here I am, lying and sneaking around, gauging how I can best use them to break in upstairs.

“I’ve got just the thing to get you two together,” Jane adds with a wink. “That man never lets a dance pass him by.” She turns to my date. “Christopher, you said your name was?”

Christopher nods.

“Be a dear and tell the quartet behind the von Schuettenberg to strike up a waltz. I believe it’s time the dancing portion of this ball got underway.”

I can barely believe my good luck. No sooner does Christopher lean down to murmur something in the piano player’s ear than Jane is leading Pierre straight to me. He still looks anxious, especially now that people are moving and rustling en masse, but true to her words, he perks up as the strains of a waltz begin.

“Your mother was a heavenly dancer,” Pierre confesses as he takes me into his arms. In my peep-toes, I’m the same height as he is, so it’s a strange sensation. I’m used to being dwarfed by Grant’s massive frame.

“Was she?” I ask. “I bet Erica made her take all kinds of formal lessons as a kid. Unlike me. I can feel her judging me from the other side of the room.”

His mustache twitches in laughter. “Nonsense. Your grandmother is proud of you—she wouldn’t have brought you here otherwise. And your dancing is perfectly acceptable.”

It is fine, since my time as a rec center ballet teacher taught me a thing or two about fancy footwork, but I pretend to falter anyway. My fumbling movements are the perfect cover for me to beg Pierre to teach me the steps. The faltering one-two-three, one-two-three is the perfect cover for slipping a hand inside his coat pocket and extracting the card, so I accept.

And it’s a good thing, too. With no more than a sharp turn, a wobbling heel, and an intoxicated couple at our back, I have the key card in my grip.

While Pierre struggles to help the fallen couple back to their feet, I stick the card down the front of my dress alongside the UV flashlight. It’s getting awfully crowded in there, especially since I don’t have much in the way of cleavage to hide all that technology, but the music comes to a miraculous halt before Pierre notices.

“Thank you for the dance,” I manage, breathless with the exertion of the waltz and the exhilaration of success.

“Any time,” he says, more out of politeness than a desire to hold me in his arms again.

Not that I mind in the slightest. Now that I have the key card in hand, it’s time to take this party upstairs.

* * *

Christopher performs the waltz to admiration with my grandmother, and he looks as though he has every intention of doing the same with me, but I draw him away from the dance floor before he can get an arm around my waist.

“It was nice of you to take my grandmother out for a whirl,” I say, struggling to keep the obvious excitement from my voice. In less than ten minutes, Christopher Leon and I will have our hands on the Starbrite Necklace. In less than ten minutes, I’ll know him for what he is.

And Simon will be waiting outside to arrest him.

“It was my pleasure. I tried to ask your friend Jane, but she was needed for a minor catering emergency. Something about stale canapés.”

“She’s one of the women in charge of the event,” I explain, only giving him half an ear. I’m too distracted scouring the room for signs of Simon getting ready.

According to our original headcount, there are a dozen security guards on staff at the Conrad—all of whom are working on high alert tonight. The firm they hired for additional support supplied the two bouncers at the door as well as two men posted outside the elevator and two more at the back emergency exit. Eighteen all together, each of them on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary. We’ve never attempted a heist with so much on-site muscle before, and if we didn’t have Simon on our side, I doubt we ever would.

But we do have Simon. And Simon has a badge.

I see him out of the corner of my eye, wearing a dark suit and tie, looking uncomfortable. He nods once, which is my cue to start moving. Whirling Christopher so he faces away from his coworker, I push my date toward the opposite side of the room. The last thing we need is for him to witness Simon flashing his credentials to the security guards and asking them for help with the belligerent magician outside whose smoke is conveniently obscuring the ATM camera.

“Have you been to this museum before?” I ask conversationally, leading Christopher in the general direction of the elevators. We’re not close enough to those double metal doors to draw suspicion, but we are close enough to slip inside as soon as the guards are distracted. “I came last week and looked at the collection upstairs. It’s breathtaking.”

“Uh, no. This is my first time. I don’t usually do this sort of thing, to be honest.”

“This sort of thing as in…” Museums? Fancy parties? Theft?

“I don’t know. Socializing, I guess? I don’t get out much.”

“Really?” I’m puzzled by the angle he’s trying to play. Christopher is an attractive, single man with a job and a nice car. He’s officious and loud, of course, but he’s still charming for all that. And with all the jewels he’s taken, he’s got to be pretty wealthy by now. He must have friends in the hundreds. “But you’ve had such a successful career and everything. Grant says you’ve practically shot up the ranks at the FBI. Someone must like you.”

His eyes—those dark, familiar eyes—settle on me with uncomfortable intensity. “That’s not about me. That’s about something else.”

My heart picks up, and for the first time since everything started, I feel how dangerous a situation I’ve placed myself in. All of Grant’s warnings and worries slam into me at once. Ten million dollars isn’t something to take lightly. It’s more money than most people see in a lifetime, more money than most people need to feel justified in resorting to extremes, as this man has already proven.

People kill for this kind of money. People die.

A waiter whizzes past us carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres, his head ducked low, and I recognize him—just barely—as Oz. Simon stands talking to a pair of security guards on the other side of the room, gesturing outside at where Riker and Cheryl are putting on the show of a lifetime. Mariah is sitting in a dark room somewhere, furiously hacking into the laser system so it will be timed to go down as we walk in. Jordan is in my ear and ready to step in the moment I need her. And even my grandmother is helping, standing back and watching with something like admiration as I take control of this ballroom and all the people in it.

Unlike Christopher, I’m not alone.

“Look, Penelope, there’s something I should tell you, something I should have told you from the start.” Christopher runs his hand through his hair. “Can we go somewhere quiet to talk?”

Yes, actually. And I know just the place.

“Do you want to go see the necklace?” I ask and point upstairs.

He blinks. “You have access?”

Oh, I have access. Don’t you worry your proud lion’s head about that. “Of course,” I say, trying on a breezy laugh. If it falls a little flat, Christopher doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m Erica Dupont’s granddaughter, after all.”

As if by magic, the guards standing in front of the elevator doors shift their attention to the front doors of the museum, where Simon leads a few men out. They don’t give up their posts, but a clumsy waiter crashes into them at that exact moment, sending a flaming ring of shrimp flying.

In their haste to prevent fire from catching on all the trailing gowns in the room, the guards don’t notice when the waiter reaches into his pocket and fiddles with a control. They also don’t notice when the elevator doors swish open and two people slip quietly inside.

It’s showtime.