Chapter 44
COLE
“I’m coming with you,” I say, the instant Kate announces she’s heading up to Baltimore.
“You’re not,” she counters. “You have to get upstairs. Make sure everything is taken down. We can’t risk anything connecting that office with us after we leave.
“Megan is already working up there.”
“And that doesn’t put the fear of God in you?” She laughs as she says it, which is the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in days.
“Kate…” I reach for a handful of her hair.
She leans against my palm for just a moment. We’re both bone-tired. But she turns her head and skates her lips across my wrist. “I’m Canton Crew born and bred. I can handle a Donegal man.”
“From everything you’ve said, he’s not just any Donegal man.”
“He’s the one I asked to come here. Go. Take care of things upstairs. I’ll see you back at the house.”
“Take Cameron,” I say.
She nods acceptance.
“And the two guards.”
This time she argues. “They’ve earned a break.”
“Jacobson!” I call. “Tell Kate she isn’t going to Baltimore without at least three men.”
Jacobson crosses the lobby. “She isn’t going to Baltimore without at least three vehicles.”
“I don’t have time for that,” she snaps, her old impatience finally breaking through.
“Fine,” I say. “Three men. Go.”
Kate growls, but she recognizes victory when she’s won it. I watch her head down to the garage, Cameron and the two uniforms in tow. Then Jacobson and I go up to the fifth floor. “Will the security guard be any trouble?” I ask.
“I’ve had plenty of time to talk to him this week. The man’s a true patriot. Despite his momentary panic just now, he’ll support the FBI in its undercover mission.”
“Wonderful,” I say wryly.
Jacobson waits by the elevator on the fifth floor as I take in a completely changed scene.
Megan stands in the center of the room. Her wig is long gone, along with those fake teeth and her unnerving contact lenses.
She’s ditched her chartreuse polyester top for a ripped Nirvana T-shirt, and she’s traded in her pink-and-beige plaid pants for a pair of cut-offs.
Her bright green hair shines like a traffic light.
She’s scowling at her phone as a moving crew crawls through the space like ants on a hill.
Four over-size black garbage bags hold a jumble of keepsakes and souvenirs, the accumulated crap that made this place look like a real government site.
Another bag is filled with waste from the kitchen—everything left in the refrigerator, a canister of Maxwell House, powdered creamer and sugar, and that miserable excuse for a coffee maker.
Computer drives, speakers, and cameras are triple bagged, just waiting to be tied off.
A duffel sits by the door to the observation room. That’s the bag Kate brought, the one with her toothbrush and clothes. I’ll take it with me when I leave.
A plastic sign leans against the wall: Mid-Atlantic Joint Task Force for the Interception and Interdiction of Organized Crime. Three framed photos of our political leaders splay by its feet.
“Dammit,” Megan says. “We should have left at least one of the computers functional.”
I cross the echoing room. “That sounds like something I can help with.”
“I’m trying to transfer money from our operating account to pay the movers.”
“Here,” I say, pulling up login information on my phone. “Use this one instead.”
She squints. “Banque Wagner?”
“It’s Tarasov’s money. I’m parking it there overnight.” I watch her type in the password. “That’s a one,” I correct. “Not an el.”
She gives me a lopsided grin. “I’ve never been good with money.”
“That isn’t money. It’s typing.”
“I’ve never been good at that either. If you learn to type…” Megan’s sing-song tone delivers some of Shannon’s favorite words of wisdom.
“You’ll spend the rest of your life as a secretary.” I finish the familiar quotation. “We don’t have secretaries anymore. They’re all executive assistants.”
Megan shoves her phone at me. “Assist this,” she says. “Pay out for the team. One hundred grand for everyone, plus a ten-thousand-dollar tip.”
I raise my eyebrows. We’d talked about hiring each person for ten grand a day. But given how well the con worked, I can hardly argue. Plus, not a penny is coming out of my pocket.
As I start to manage the transfers, Megan turns to the uniformed crew of movers breaking down the cubicle walls. “Let’s go, guys. All of this needs to be on the freight elevator five minutes ago. We lose the loading dock in half an hour.”
The men grumble, but they pick up their pace.
Nutmeg missed her calling. She could have been a project manager at any tech giant in the country. But she might have to lose her emerald hair.
Scarcely thirty minutes later, everything is accounted for. Every member of our grifter team has been handsomely paid. Hard surfaces are wiped down with bleach. Every scrap that can be removed from the office suite is destined for an industrial incinerator.
The last thing the movers collect is the sign. Megan cocks her head for one last look at the red-and-blue lettering. “Are you sure you don’t want to hang that somewhere back home?” she asks.
“It would fit right in, between the Matisse and the Cezanne.”
Still, she eyes it. “I’d take it,” she says. “If I had a wall big enough.” She tilts her head. “If I had a house with walls.” She takes a step back. “If I had the first clue about where I’ll be living next week. Next month. Next year.”
She waves a hand, sending the sign downstairs to the van.
“So,” she says.
“So,” I answer.
She looks around the empty room before she says, “Mama always said the number one thing that makes a good con great is shutting down the operation.”
“No,” I say. “Mama always said the number one thing is having a partner you can trust.”
Megan’s eyes are piercing. “I’ve never heard you call her that before.”
I barely lift one shoulder in a shrug before I grab my phone. “Three-way split on the rest of the take from Tarasov?” I ask. “You, Kate, and me?”
“What does that come to?”
“Thirty-three million each, give or take.”
Her grin is the pure, uncomplicated joy of a kid sitting down to a banana split. But then she shakes her head. “You keep my share.”
“Really?”
“We both know I’ll just blow it. Besides, this way I’ll have something to hold over your head the next time I need something.”
“I’m not sure I like this plan.”
“You love it. You get to be in absolute control.”
“You know me too well.” I give her a moment to change her mind. “Seriously? You don’t want it?”
She scratches absently at one arm. “Tell you what. What have you got on you, right now?”
I take out my wallet. Twelve one-hundred-dollar bills nestle behind a couple of twenties.
“Yeah,” she says, taking all of it. “That seems about right.” She hands me back a twenty and shoves the rest deep into a pocket. “Throw in a week at the Four Seasons.”
“Three days.” I bargain out of habit.
“Five. And I get those forged paintings I left at your house a few years back.”
Left at your house. It sounds like she accidentally forgot her toothbrush in the guest bathroom. Not like she tried to use my home for a con that would have destabilized the international art market for decades.
“No forged paintings for you,” I say.
She pouts.
“But you can come over for dinner and see the real ones. Maybe some time next week?”
“You’ll actually let me past the gate?”
“For one meal. But you have to be with Kate or me the entire time you’re on the premises.”
“What about your Norwegian forest cat? Can’t Nilsson be one of my babysitters?”
“He’s still Swedish. And he’s still too valuable for me to inflict you on him.” I can see the gears turning inside her mind. “Take it or leave it, kid.”
“I take it,” she says.
Before I can brace myself, she throws herself at me, locking her arms behind my back. I respond by reflex, hugging her close. Her bright green hair tickles my nose.
“I love you, Cocoa Puff,” she says.
“I love you too, Nutmeg.”
She squeezes me even tighter before she finally pulls away, sniffling just a little. “I’ll be in touch about that dinner.”
Instead of waiting for the elevator, she breezes past Jacobson with a wave of her fingers, making her way to the fire-emergency stairs. The door closes behind her with a decisive clang.
Jacobson waits for the echo to die away before he asks, “Home?”
I cross the room to retrieve Kate’s duffel. As I straighten, my phone rings. I recognize the tone before I can pull it out of my pocket.
The Andersons are calling from their landline.
Mr. and Mrs. A… I thought I’d never speak to them again… I have to clear my throat twice before I can answer. “This is Cole.”
There’s a pause, and for one stomach-swooping moment I wonder if they’ll hang up without saying a word. But Mrs. A finally says, “I’ve been thinking. And praying. It’s time for us to talk.”
The wave of relief that washes over me feels like a physical thing. My fingers are almost too weak to hold my phone. My chest feels too heavy for my body, and I slump toward the wall, ignoring Jacobson’s look of alarm.
“I know it’s dinnertime,” Mrs. A says. “And I haven’t cooked a thing. But can you come out to the house right now? I didn’t sleep at all last night. I need to see you. We both do.”
“I’m on my way.”
Jacobson already has his keys in his hand. “Where to?” he asks.
“The Andersons.” I pound the button for the elevators.
“Everything okay out there?”
I must take too long to answer, because he taps the communication device on the lapel of his loose-fitting jacket. “Garfield? Do you have eyes on right now?”
“Yes, sir,” comes the immediate reply. “Female subject returned with grocery bags fifteen minutes ago. Male subject helped her to carry them inside. No indication of hostiles nearby.”
“Copy that,” Jacobson says. He looks at me. “Want me to send Garfield inside?”
I shake my head. “No, nothing like that. Just get me out there as fast as you can.”
Jacobson completes the thirty-minute drive in under twenty. He doesn’t even try to accompany me to the front porch.