Chapter 22 #2
* * *
Vivian hated how comforting John’s grip on her hand was in the taxi. To survive their breakup, she couldn’t rely on him. It was unfair to them both.
And her heart.
She’d tried to rest but tossed and turned until she opened her borrowed laptop and scanned all the systems she had access to. No additional intel nuggets to be gleaned. She’d exhausted herself, and her emotions were about to snap.
Not a great combo for an action in the field.
Hall turned down the narrow street occupied by Maison Moreau. “In and out as fast as you can. We’ll be at the café across the street if shit goes sideways. And look like you’re having fun. It’s a party, remember?”
Fun. Sure.
Partying with the man she’d just broken up with, while facing down her ex and his new partner who was possibly an organized crime underboss, not to mention trying to find the final piece to a bioweapons lab security breach and operating under the direction of a possible double-agent boss.
Good times.
“Roger that,” Vivian said.
As Hall idled, John slipped out of his side, then opened her door. She used his steady grip to balance in another fucking pair of stilettos as they joined the security line.
“Do you go to a lot of parties on your trips?” John draped his hand over her nape, rubbing his thumb along her neck.
Her spine hummed with pleasant, unwelcome shivers.
“Some.” She leaned into his caress. For a second. To keep up the ruse. “But not lots.”
She felt Hall’s and Rodriguez’s binocular gazes on them.
The security guard gestured for them to step forward.
The Swarovski crystals covering the flap of her purse sparkled in the party’s rotating disco lights as the guard flipped it open.
He poked his baton through its sparse contents.
Phone, wallet and perfume atomizer. She’d also uncomfortably tucked the code index card into her underwear.
Back at the suite, Vandenberg, Hall and Rodriguez insisted most of Vivian’s gear would trigger suspicion.
True, but they’d made her more vulnerable.
Which might actually be their plan, considering John wasn’t much better equipped with a propofol EpiPen and ceramic screwdrivers.
Vandenberg kept everything else they’d brought, including their passports.
Which gave hostage vibes.
After the security guard waved them through, the bouncer opened the door. With bass thumping her chest, her eyes adjusted to the crowded, black-lit event space. Servers wearing black pants, white shirts, and neon glow-in-the-dark glasses circulated drinks and canapés.
Vivian leaned toward a server who wore a fabulous scarf knotted at her neck. “Tell me about your glasses?”
“Mr. Westwood, through the darkness of his marriage, now ‘sees’ his ex was terrible.” The server rolled her eyes. “So we symbolically wear these disasters. Care for another bouchée?”
The server lifted the tray, and she and John grabbed another appetizer.
“What’s your name?” she asked the server.
“Elif,” she answered.
“Thanks, Elif, you’re a goddess. And I love your scarf.”
As they threaded through glittering attendees, John’s hand grazed the exposed small of her back. Unfair. That was her secret erogenous zone. Not so secret for John, though. He’d discovered it on their fourth date.
He caught her hand and leaned to her ear. “Can we talk?”
Tension simmered under her surface.
“We have a job to do first.” She squeezed his hand.
“Promise we’ll talk later.”
“I promise.” She had no intention of living up to her promise.
Instead, she’d focus on the operation.
“Let’s check out the gift shop, sweetie.” She ambled into the shop adjacent to the museum’s entrance. “What do you think of this?”
She unfurled a large scarf, then twirled with it and scanned the walls. Two security cameras, opposite corners, like she remembered. Damn.
“It’s large, babe,” John said.
She dropped it back on its table, then gestured to a locked acrylic display case. “How about this?”
Within the case stood a fashion doll who’d been turned into a Baltimore Hon, complete with cat’s-eye glasses, cigarette and a generous beehive hairstyle. No artist credited, but there was no doubt she was a Rocksy and had served as the model for the Smoking Hon portrait in Monte Carlo.
John wrapped his arms around her from behind. “What am I looking at?”
The party’s dance music gave her cover to brief John on what she’d held back from Vandenberg, but she wanted his ear closer to her mouth.
“Nuzzle my neck,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The frisson his lips caused made it hard to concentrate.
“I’d bet an eyeball it’s in there,” she murmured.
“Rocksy loathes Serge but adores his daughter, who’s the museum’s exec director.
Rocksy gifted her this doll to celebrate the museum’s opening.
But with Rocksy’s blessing, I refused to authenticate it until Michelle’s ready so her toxic father can’t sell it out from under her. ”
“There’s a hefty price tag now, so someone’s selling.”
The tag had been scribbled in hasty marker. Twenty-one million euros.
“Can you call in a favor?” John whispered. “Since you know the exec director.”
Vivian shook her head. “I tried. She placed herself in the psych ward at Sainte-Anne two weeks ago. Told you her father’s an asshole.”
He hugged her from behind. “Sorry to hear that.”
She allowed herself a second to sink into his comfort.
“Which means we’re on to plan R—you can pick locks, right?”
He rested his chin on her head. “Not without lock-picking tools. Wouldn’t work anyway. See that sensor on the door, the white one? If it’s moved out of detection range, an alarm’s triggered. The whole thing’s battery-powered, and those batteries last forever.”
“Well, fuck.”
Tension banded her temples. She wanted this mission over so she could go home and sob in her bathtub with a pint of honey graham ice cream. And batteries stood in her way?
“So I guess we’re on to plan S.” John’s voice made her insides quiver.
Focus, she told herself.
“Can’t pick the lock or move the case, so we’ll go through it. The acrylic vitrine they used is pretty thin, and my lighter’s basically a blowtorch. We can remove her that way.”
She relaxed against him. “You can do that?”
“I do it at work all the time. Should take two, three minutes.”
From behind them, a voice called, “May I help you?”
Vivian thumped her head against John’s chest, then turned to find a sales clerk. “Sorry, we thought the shop was closed because of the party.”
“That would have made sense, no?” The clerk smiled. “They usually do. But for tonight, they decided to operate with reduced staff.”
Her shimmering peacock-blue chandelier earrings picked up faint light from the shop’s neon Serge Moreau quotes high on the wall.
“Your earrings are amazing,” Vivian said.
Earrings the shop displayed with the scarves, and she could use to distract the clerk.
“We actually sell them here.” The clerk gestured toward the display table.
“Oh, fabulous. But do you have any in the back? I’m a germophobe, and I’d prefer a pair no one’s touched.”
“Certainly, madame.” She nodded. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
As the clerk disappeared, the DJ in the event space announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the guest of honor has arrived!”
A cheer erupted from the crowd. Success was talent plus luck, and tonight, she was leaning hard on luck. She couldn’t have planned better timing if she’d tried.
“Now or never, John,” she whispered. “I’ll keep watch.”
He flicked his Zippo, and the sharp smell of burnt plastic filled the air.
Vivian generously sprayed her new atomizer to cover it.
Well, not so much cover as confuse anyone who walked into this pungent cloud.
During the longest two minutes of her life, he melted the top of the display case, then carefully widened the hole with a ceramic screwdriver.
“Can you get her?” he asked. “My fingers are too big.”
John grabbed the abandoned scarf she’d been twirling like Stevie Nicks and held it up to shield her from the camera.
With careful fingers, Vivian pinched the doll’s beehive and lifted her from the case.
She unzipped the doll’s housecoat. No drive.
Next she squeezed the doll’s beehive. Yes.
Adrenaline sizzled through her. She winkled the drive from the doll’s hair, then returned Baltimore Hon to the display case.
As she zippered the drive into her purse’s secret pocket, the clerk returned.
“Madame? I have the earrings.” The clerk wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”
She blanked.
“Fog machine from the party, I think?” John said. “I’m surprised they’d use that in a museum.”
The clerk looked like she bought it.
As she scanned the earrings, she asked, “Anything else?”
“This.” John dropped the scarf on the counter.
Vivian raised an eyebrow but didn’t question it.
The clerk folded the scarf. “Would you like a bag?”
“No thank you.” Vivian touched her credit card to the payment terminal.
The clerk slid their purchases across the counter. “Merci. Please come again.”
If Vivian never set foot in this museum again, she’d die happy.
“Why’d you get the scarf?” she asked.
“Thought you could use another weapon. Just in case.”
Why hadn’t she thought of that?
“Can you carry these?” She handed him the earrings. “They won’t fit in my purse.”
John slipped the box into his tweed jacket’s inner pocket. “Did you like these?”
“A lot, but I could never pull them off.” She tied the brightly patterned scarf into a classic French knot. “I might give them to my sister. All her jewelry is artsy-dangly-jingly. Built to grab attention, whereas I—”
The lights and music shut off.
Black descended on the half-drunk crowd. Vivian reached out, hoping to collide with John, but came up empty. A hand clamped over her mouth, and an arm belted around her waist. She bucked and twisted, but the arms tightened.
“Keep it up and you won’t see your boyfriend again.”
Fear iced her veins, but she allowed herself to be dragged to another location. Soon she was shoved into a chair. The lights popped on. She shielded her eyes until they adjusted to the sudden brightness.
Well, fuck.