Uncommon Criminals
“Shame his company’s not gonna get the message,” Gabrielle added.
“It is,” Hale said with a solemn nod.
“And that he lost his wallet…” Kat went on.
Hale raised one false eyebrow. “A tragedy indeed.” When he slid the small leather case into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, the two girls watched him. Kat had pulled aside the heavy drapes, and light streamed into the room, bouncing off of faded dusty furniture, a cold fireplace, and a perfectly forged Rembrandt that had hung above the mantel for longer than Kat had been alive.
“Kat, what are we going to do about his shoulders?” Gabrielle tried to pull his arms down, but nothing about him seemed to move. “And that gut,” she said, patting him on the stomach.
“Hey, I’ve never had any complaints in that area before,” Hale said smugly.
“Exactly,” Gabrielle cried. “Would it kill you to eat a muffin every now and then?”
Kat was biting her nails, walking around Hale, staring him slowly up and down.
“His hands are off,” Gabrielle pointed out.
“Posture’s wrong,” Kat said.
“He’s still…hot,” Gabrielle said, as if it were the greatest insult in the world.
“I feel so objectified. So…cheap,” Hale told them, but the girls talked on.
“This would work from a distance, but in close quarters and under high scrutiny…” Kat let the thought trail off.
“Couldn’t you have found someone younger?” Gabrielle said.
“It was a miracle I found him.” Hale pointed to the documents on the table.
“We either need a young guy for you to impersonate or an old guy to do the impersonating!” Gabrielle threw her hands into the air. “We need—”
“No,” Kat said before the words could even come out. “Uncle Eddie is not a part of this.”
Gabrielle crossed her arms. “But he is the ultimate old guy.”
“Maybe we should call him, Kat,” Hale said. “I mean, where are we going to find a suitable old guy in twenty-four hours?”
Kat turned toward the soft voice and had to shake her head. For a second, she could have sworn she was seeing double. She looked between the photo of Ezra Jones that lay on the table and the way Marcus stood in the door. They had the same eyes, the same coloring, and the same look of people who have been orbiting around great wealth and power—always on the perimeter, always close enough to serve—for a lifetime.
Marcus drew a deep breath. “Your dinner is ready.”
CHAPTER 7
The Cleopatra Emerald was not cursed—everyone at the Oliver Kelly Corporation for Auctions and Antiquities said so.
After all, an emerald—no matter how large—did not cause the ship carrying Oliver Kelly the First to sink in shallow waters off the coast of Nova Scotia. And once the stone was set in platinum and given to a railroad heiress from Buenos Aires, there was no way any necklace—no matter how heavy—could force a woman to lose her head in a very tragic steam engine incident.
Of course, it was impossible to deny that the next owner went bankrupt. The small country that added the stone to its crown jewels was invaded. And the museum that displayed the Cleopatra for a short time was burned almost entirely to the ground.
But it wasn’t cursed.
Everybody at the Kelly Corporation said so.
“It’s not cursed, Mr. Jones.”
“Of course not.” Hale gave a deep throaty laugh and slapped Marcus on the back. Marcus, as per their agreement, said nothing. “But, Mr. Kelly, as the Cleopatra’s insurer of record, Mr. Jones is of the opinion that the stone would be best left exactly where it is.”
“Excuse me.” Kelly cut him off. “Who are you, exactly?”
“Well, as I said on the phone, Mr. Kelly, I’m Colin Knightsbury. I’m Mr. Jones’s personal assistant.”
Kelly seemed to consider this before turning and saying, “Fine.”
Hale was not short, lazy, or unathletic, and yet it felt somehow like a struggle to keep up, as they followed Oliver Kelly the Third down the polished halls and gleaming corridors. It didn’t look like the sort of place that had its roots in shady places and black market deals, but if there was one thing every W. W. Hale learned early on, it’s that you never really want to know where the money comes from.
“And as I said on the phone, we at Chamberlain and King believe that moving the Cleopatra on this schedule could be quite dangerous. If you could delay—”
Kelly came to an abrupt stop and wheeled on the pair. “I’m sure you would like me to delay, but seeing that it’s my stone, I think I’ll do with it as I please.”
“Before his death,” Hale started, “your father was adamant that the stone not be displayed in public, and—”
“My father inherited this company,” Kelly snapped, gesturing to the people and things that filled the hall. “And do you know what he did with it?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Nothing, Mr. Jones. He maintained what my grandfather had built—that’s all. I don’t expect you to understand what it’s like to be in a family business, but the job of future generations is not to maintain. The one major decision my father made was to buy the Cleopatra back thirty years ago, and then he locked it up goodness knows where—”
“What?”
“According to our records, the stone is in a high-security box in a Swiss bank.”
“I know that,” Kelly snapped, and pushed the elevator call button. “The point is that no one has seen it. I have never even seen it. It’s the greatest asset this company has, and all it’s done in thirty years is collect dust and wait for some mythical mate to turn up so that some ridiculous curse can be broken.”
“Of course, of course,” Hale said.
Kelly looked at him as if to say, I was talking to your boss.
That was when Hale slid closer. “You’ll have to forgive Mr. Jones, Mr. Kelly,” he confided softly as Marcus stood three steps behind them, stoic, silent as the grave. “He can see the smallest crack in a company’s defenses, the slightest fault. I’m here to make sure Mr. Jones isn’t distracted. The man’s a genius, you see. And when Mr. Jones says that it might be best to wait—”
There was a ding, and the elevator doors were sliding open.
“My grandfather was a genius,” Kelly snapped. “A visionary.”
Hale stepped inside the elevator, secretly wishing the man would have the nerve to add “a thief.”
“That stone is the Kelly Corporation’s signature piece,” Kelly continued, “and it’s not going to stay in a hole in the ground. Not on my watch.”
The doors slid closed, and Hale couldn’t help but study the reflection of Oliver Kelly the Third—the handmade suit and full-Windsor knot. Antique cuff links and Italian calfskin shoes, all of which had one purpose: to make sure no one ever mistook him for ordinary. All at the age of twenty-nine. Hale might not have hated him so much had it not been like looking in a fun-house mirror—at who he might have become if he hadn’t been home two years before on the night when Kat came to steal his Monet.
“Yes, Mr. Kelly,” Hale said slowly, still taking the image in. “I understand completely.”
“Good.” When the elevator doors opened, Kelly turned and extended a hand toward Marcus. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Jones. I appreciate your time. But as you can see, our paperwork is in order, and our security”—he gestured at the showroom on the main level of the building, its gleaming cases and cameras and guards—“it is the best it can possibly be, so I’m afraid you’ve made the trip for nothing.”
“Indeed.” Hale reached to take the hand that was offered, held it a little longer than Kelly was perhaps expecting, squeezed it a little tighter. “What do you think, Mr. Jones?”
Marcus let his gaze sweep around the room. His voice was stoic and cold when he said, “I think the last time I heard that was at the Henley.”
Hale watched Oliver Kelly the Third shudder at the words. The color faded in his cheeks, and his mouth drew into a thin hard line. “The Henley?”
“Oh yes,” Hale said. “They assured us that no one could ever steal Angel Returning to Heaven from their walls, and we believed them. But we were all wrong on that account, weren’t we, Mr. Kelly?”
Honesty was a rare thing in Oliver Kelly’s business. People negotiated. Dealers lied. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do when faced with someone so willing to admit a mistake, so he didn’t do anything—he just stood, waiting.
“It’s not cursed,” Kelly said automatically.
“Of course not. But if you don’t mind”—Hale placed his hands behind his back, smiled warmly—“Mr. Jones would like to start with the basement.”
“And the cameras on this level?” Hale asked twenty minutes later.
“The same as the level before,” the director of security said from his place at Mr. Kelly’s right side.
Kelly watched as Hale took copious notes. He snapped hundreds of pictures.
“And these windows?” Hale asked. “They’re monitored by…?”
“Glass break detectors at fifteen yard intervals.”
“Bulletproof?”
“Of course.” The security director sounded almost offended.
“Excellent.” Hale took yet another picture, then consulted his clipboard one more time. “Then I believe all that remains is the vault. The model number on that again is…”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jones,” Kelly said, “but I distinctly remember providing that information in our quarterly report.”
“Yes,” Hale stepped in to answer. “And last quarter, the Cleopatra Emerald was scheduled to stay safely on the other side of the world, so forgive us if we visit the subject again.” He turned to the security director. “The model on this door sensor…”
“Helix 857J,” the man said with no emotion.
“I assure you, gentlemen,” Mr. Kelly interrupted again. “We at the Kelly Corporation know exactly how valuable our emerald is, and we have taken every precaution to protect—”
“Your emerald?” Hale tilted his head. “Does everyone agree about that?”
The man flushed. “Well, of course. Who else could…”
Hale turned to Kelly, stared straight into his eyes, and said, “Tell me about Constance Miller.”
“The subject of Ms. Miller is a matter for our legal depart-ment—not security. I can assure you that the Cleopatra’s so-called history has no bearing on her safety.”