A Kiss in the Dark (Sam and Rick #2)

Chapter 15

15

Monday, 8:17 p.m.

M artin Jellicoe lowered his binoculars and pulled another slice of pizza out of the box sitting beside him. Rooftop dinners. He didn’t much like them, because he preferred to enjoy a meal and have it accompanied by a drink with an umbrella in it, but he’d definitely become accustomed to them over the years.

Not so much these days, because it turned out that it was a much easier gig to get in with a heist crew and then get paid by Interpol to rat them out before they could actually rob anything. Of course there were the jobs that were too tempting to pass on, where he went in and liberated an item himself and then left a fake fingerprint or a strand of hair from one of the young guns who thought they’d cornered the market on high-end burglaries.

He lifted the binoculars again. Sam and Stoney and Addison and Anne and some older guy who looked like George Hamilton. With that tan he had to be from Florida, probably Sam’s office manager. At least the voice he’d heard matched with the guy that he saw now. Her crew, though, was a joke. The only thing missing was that lawyer Addison usually hauled around with him.

Tonight it looked like they were going over strategy to stop him again. Stupid waste of time, but supremely predictable. He’d put in the call to Stoney, and of course Stoney had gone to warn his best source of income, who had in turn called in the Sotheby’s lady and the tan man. And so the crew had gathered, with the timing of a clock.

Yeah, Sam had an ego on her. Just because she’d gotten lucky turning on him— him —in the middle of the Met job, now she figured she was just better than he was. Fuck that. Anybody who knew anything in his line of work learned right at the beginning that while a lucky turn might get you a prize, being lucky didn’t make you a good thief.

But then she’d gotten lucky, and suddenly she thought she was the best. She probably hadn’t even batted an eye when Sotheby’s had decided to call her in for a prime opportunity. No, she probably thought she deserved it. Sam would never dream that her dad had called into the Met to pretend to do an article about the theft and Ms. Jellicoe’s heroics right before he’d sent an anonymous email to Sotheby’s asking some sharp questions about their security—and right before he left that note for Anne.

Everybody was so damned predictable in this world. Even Sam, and before she’d gotten too good to work with him she’d actually shown some real promise. Unless her engagement with the rich guy was just to get close to his shit so she could rob him, Martin didn’t see the point of it. Four years of trying to be a normal had nearly killed him. Signing up for a lifetime of sitting in front of the TV and folding towels? No, thank you.

Sam knew, too, that without the thrill of the grab, life was a damn, dull pot of shit, and as her dad, it was his duty to both point out her flaws and short-sightedness to her, and to remind her that nobody was allowed to go against him without facing consequences. Maybe he’d thought about that last bit more than the first one, but that was her fault.

Leaning back against the A/C unit behind him, he finished off the slice of pizza. Not for the first time he wished he could hear the conversation behind those big-view windows, because Anne would have told Sam about Bradley Martin robbing her before, and Sam wouldn’t have said that Bradley Martin was Martin Jellicoe, because she’d gone around announcing her own name and Sotheby’s wouldn’t have kept on the daughter of the guy threatening the exhibition—and Sam would have been drooling at the idea of working with Sotheby’s.

Well, his call to Stoney had gotten the gang together for their meeting, and so he needed to get to work. Idiots. Working so hard to figure out a way to stop him and protect Sam, and thereby giving him the opening he’d been waiting for to get inside the old house.

He packed up his shit and headed down the back staircase of the office building again. If this didn’t convince Sam to either give up the life or jump back into it with both feet—and to apologize for trying to show him up—well, he would be doing it again. But with the surprise he had ready for her and Anne, he doubted she’d be in any shape to keep working in security after this. A shiver ran down his arms. Man, he’d been saving this one for just the right moment, and it was finally here. He hoped one of the Sam gang was recording their meeting, because he wanted to watch this later, if he could.

Stealing a Tesla parked down on the street, he made his way uptown to Sotheby’s and the old Victorian house a few blocks past that. Dumping the car again was easy, and he picked up the tools he’d stashed behind a dumpster close by, then zipped up his jacket, pulled the hood over his head, and strolled the last half block to where his latest treasure lay, just waiting for him to retrieve it.

In various disguises he’d walked this block maybe twenty times since Sam had arrived in Manhattan. He’d seen the security she brought in, watched parts of various tests, checked the details of cabinet-makers and the sensitivity levels the window alarms were capable of, and the same with the display panels and pads. She’d wired the place against everything from him to Houdini.

Hell, she’d even had some concrete pilings put in to keep a trash truck or something from crashing into the building—a route he’d favored early on. Her point had been that nobody could sneak into that place and get out again without being seen and identified. In doing that, though, she’d neglected a couple of things.

Martin pulled a paint gun from his duffle. Staying at the edge of the shadows, he splattered green paint over one camera, then the other that overlooked the street in front of the exhibit house. Easy. And a method Sam had been known to use, herself.

Then he pulled the phone he’d stolen out of his pocket and dialed Anne’s mobile number. “Hello?” she said, her voice the reedy, annoying one he remembered.

“Anne. Good to talk to you again,” he said, putting a smile into his voice. “It’s been a while.”

He could almost hear her frantically gesturing at the apartment’s other occupants. “Bradley.” Her voice wobbled even more, now.

“Thought it was time I give you a call,” he said expansively, squatting down beside his duffel. “You and Sam Jellicoe have been working pretty hard to keep me out of your exhibit, haven’t you?”

“Of course we have. You threatened to steal from me. Again.”

“I did steal from you before, didn’t I? So maybe I owe you one. Take a look at Sam standing there staring at you, why don’t you?” His voice had a slight echo in his ear now, so he knew she’d put him on speaker. Good. Fewer misunderstandings and misinterpretations, that way. “Sam Jellicoe. She’s what, about twenty-five, do you think? And that last name of hers—what is that, something she started using after she went to see Cats ?”

“Shut up, Bradley,” Sam’s voice came, tense and hard.

“Sam! Hi.” And she was calling him Bradley, so his hunch about her not telling Anne Hughes everything was spot on, as he’d figured it would be. “I thought you might be listening in. That’s good. You see, Anne, Sam Jellicoe there knows some things that you don’t. For instance, I don’t go by Bradley Martin these days. I use the name Martin. Martin…Jellicoe. Sam didn’t want you to know she was my daughter, so she didn’t tell you that. And Sam, Anne didn’t tell you some things, either. Namely that she and I were married once, and that we had a kid together. Anne wanted to name her Sarah, but I preferred Samantha.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Sam yelled, her voice shrill.

He grinned into the phone. So predictable, people were. Even the ones who had a little talent. “That’s a lot of information, isn’t it? I’ll put it all together for you. Anne took her mom’s maiden name, I guess, after I left, but her married name was Anne Martin. Sam, you were born Sarah Martin. Mom, meet kid. Kid, meet your mom. And don’t ever accuse me of not putting family first. I arranged this reunion, after all. Now you two talk amongst yourselves, and I’ll give you a call later to catch back up. Good night.”

He hung up, pulled a grenade from his bag, primed it, and tossed it at the front door of the exhibit house before he dove around the corner. Let the fireworks begin .

* * *

“Did he hang up?” Sam mouthed, stalking forward to lean over the phone.

“Yes. He’s choosing now to drop his bomb?” Anne asked, scowling at the screen. “Who does that?”

Shit . Samantha dove for the bedroom. “He’s going in. Right now.”

At the same second her phone, Anne’s phone, and her mom’s ever-present iPad began clanging with alerts. Tossing her phone to Rick, she kicked off her pretty blue flats and yanked on her way-more-practical athletic shoes. No time for her black thief outfit; slimming and practical or not, the clock was ticking. Fast.

“The cameras out front aren’t working,” Anne called, her voice shaking. “And half the sensors downstairs are registering pressure alarms. What do—”

“I’m going in,” Samantha stated, pulling on her black hoodie. “You guys do the things we talked about, and do them fast. Because I aim to have him in jail by morning.”

“I’m going with you,” Rick stated, handing her phone back to her. “Just in case he has a different idea. Walter, call Tom and let him know it’s happening right now.”

“I’m the phone guy now?” Stoney complained, even as he pulled his phone from his pocket.

Aubrey already had his phone out, his complexion way paler than his tan should have allowed. She still wasn’t a hundred percent about him, but over the past year she’d become a fan of the everybody-gets-a-second-chance mantra. Pendleton was key, though; if he backed out, or couldn’t pull off his charm thing, she was going to be in a shitload of trouble, and on several fronts.

“Oh, I’m getting a fire alarm, now.” Anne looked up as Samantha trotted past her. “Please be careful. My job isn’t worth losing you again.”

Samantha squatted in front of the table standing against the wall beside the door. She thudded her fist against one of the faux side panels and popped it open to pull out the small backpack she’d shoved in there months ago. When she straightened, Rick stood between her and the door, his gaze on the backpack and his arms folded over his chest.

“You still have a go-bag?” he snapped. “After all this? How can I—”

“It’s not a go-bag,” she interrupted, grabbing his arm and turning him back toward the door. “It’s an emergency equipment bag. No toothbrush or fake passports or anything.”

“I was wondering where you had it stashed,” Stoney commented, then turned away. “Donner? No, don’t hang up. This is official shit.”

“Oh, my,” Anne breathed behind them, and then they were out in the foyer and calling the elevator up.

“What is in there, then?” Rick asked as they stepped into the mirrored elevator. “And why did you hide it from me?”

“Rope, pliers, tape, hammer, screwdriver, knife, a can of spray paint, and a couple other things I might need if I have to get into or out of somewhere fast. And I didn’t tell you because you would worry that I was going back to the dark side or something. Which I’m not.”

He took a breath. “I should tell you, then, that I visited Sam Gorstein a couple of days ago, just to ask a few general questions.”

Now she wanted to argue about who didn’t trust whom and why he was allowed to go behind her back when she couldn’t keep a single secret, but with the backpack over her shoulders she knew exactly how that conversation would go. “My name twin? Let’s give him a heads-up, then. The cops and fire’ll already be on their way. They may even get there first.”

“Will Martin still be there?” he asked, pulling a key fob from his pocket. The car that beeped surprised her—the metallic blue Mercedes GLE. He was going for SUV muscle, which meant they might be breaking some traffic laws. Cool.

“Depends on how fast we get there. From the alarms it sounds like he rammed something through the front door, which wouldn’t be easy because of the concrete barriers. But he’s not being quiet or careful, and he knows the cops will be automatically dispatched, no matter how shocked Anne and I might be by his stupid ‘Leia, she is your mother’ shit.”

“So he’s actually just making this a smash and grab? For actual loot?” Rick slid behind the wheel and turned on the engine as she buckled herself in on the passenger side.

“You’re getting good at the lingo,” she noted, her adrenaline pumping despite the fact that this was probably the hinkiest plan she’d ever come up with. “And I don’t know. Maybe he just wants to toilet paper the place. I can’t figure him out anymore. He doesn’t have Van der Berg as his buyer, thanks to you, but most of that stuff would have black market bidders drooling like rabid dogs. He could unload any of it pretty easily.”

They roared up the street, taking corners faster than physics liked, and dodging taxis and Ubers like they were standing still. Rick wanted to get her there before Martin left, then, however he felt about the plan. He told his phone to dial Sam Gorstein’s mobile number, not his work phone, and that surprised her.

“You guys exchanging Christmas cards, too?” she asked. “Just how chummy are you with the white hats?”

“Sometimes it’s handy to know someone on the inside,” he commented. “You have some unconventional acquaintances, too, I believe.”

The call went to voicemail. Frowning, Rick glanced at her. “Martin Jellicoe is currently breaking into the Sotheby’s exhibit I mentioned,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Samantha will be there trying to head him off. Do not let anyone fucking shoot her. And call me the hell back.”

“That was…direct.” She pulled her black leather gloves out of the hoodie’s pocket. Habit, yeah, but also handy protection from broken glass.

“I’m angry.” They squealed around another corner. “And you’re excited, which scares the shit out of me.”

“I’m not excited. I’m pissed off.” Okay, maybe she was a little excited, but there were a handful of unknowns up ahead, a very small window of time to figure them out, and the possibility of confronting Martin on equal ground. It was more about being mentally ready than being excited.

One more left-hand turn on a red light, and the Victorian came into view. “Christ,” Rick grunted, stomping on the brake half a block from the building.

The front doors were missing, along with a portion of the wall surrounding them. No, they were actually there, but with the glass broken in and the frames bent like a couple of pretzels, they were more abstract art than door, now. Shit . “What the hell did he use, a grenade?” she snapped.

“You are not equipped to repel explosives.” Rick faced her. “Leave it to the police.”

“We can’t do that, because they’ll never get him. And then he’ll do this again. What if he decides to grenade our wedding or something?” She released her seat belt and shoved open the SUV’s door. “Do not follow me in. You watch from out here, and let me know if he gets by me. And tell the cops not to Dirty Harry their way in there. You or Gorstein slow them down a little, if you can. Anything that gives me a minute.”

“They will listen, even if I have to occupy them with arresting me to get the message across.”

“Okay.” She took a breath. “Go time.”

Rick caught her arm before she could hop out of the car. “Be careful,” he ordered, his scowl giving away just how worried he really was.

He didn’t like it, but he wasn’t trying to stop her. God, she loved that about him. Samantha leaned back in, gave him a swift kiss on the mouth, then slipped out of the car. Keeping low, she crossed the street, dodged the chunks of concrete and metal, and ducked into what was left of the lobby.

The sprinklers worked; water covered everything, a shinier sheen on the shiny floor, dripping off displays, and generally making navigating the mess even more difficult. She’d seen her dad do some crazy things to get whatever they’d been hired to steal, but never had he resorted to explosives before. This would have been ridiculous, except that he’d just raised the danger bar so high she wasn’t certain what he might be willing to do next.

Maybe that had been the point, though: to scare the shit out of her, make her hesitate if the “hey, we’re family” thing didn’t work, so he could get away with whatever loot and point he was trying to make. Rolling her shoulders, Samantha bypassed the elevators and headed for the security room. Toward the rear of the main floor the house looked okay, but water had definitely made a mess of everything, had wrecked the walls, and had played havoc with the electronics.

The plain, unmarked security door was open, and she leaned around the corner of the doorframe before she stepped inside. Well, Martin had been there, too. The screens were okay, but the computers were all trashed. At least that part made sense to her, because if Martin had taught her anything, it was to avoid being caught on camera.

In a way, though, the mess of circuits and wires was a good thing. It meant he’d spent time in here before he’d moved on to whatever he was after. She was catching up. The sound of sirens began echoing up and down the canyon of buildings around them. She couldn’t tell distance or direction, but there were definitely a lot of them and they were getting close.

Staying against the back wall, she climbed the stairs to the second floor and stopped on the landing, crouched and motionless. Hearing anything on top of the patter of water and alarms and the outside chaos was nearly impossible, but she listened anyway. A few taps, a click, what might have been cloth shifting, and she turned to continue to the top floor.

Up there, at least, the mess was minimal. Except for the sprinklers, some items tipped over, and a couple of display cases shifted by the blast, she couldn’t see any damage at all. If Martin knew what he wanted was on the top floor, he might have decided a blast was worth the risk to his stupid commission, as he called the items he burgled. It was still a bad decision—but it did reinforce that robbery hadn’t really been the point of all this.

Keeping low and silent on her toes, she edged into the middle of the floor. Another tap that could have been a tool against a display case, or just the house trying to settle after getting its foundation rocked, but she moved toward the northernmost room. The jewelry room.

Two of the display cabinets were missing their glass tops, and a third had a circular hole cut through the front. She noted that in passing, though, keeping her attention on the shadow that shifted in the far corner, putting something sparkly into a backpack.

“Hi, Martin,” she said.