Chapter 5 #2
Returning to the first set of windows, through which he could just make out a bed and dresser through a small gap in the curtains, he pushed against the wooden frame, but the window was firmly locked.
His lips twitched as he reached into the pocket of his coat and removed a small bundle of lock picks.
They’d long ago become a reminder of the past, and more practically, insurance in case he ever lost or forgot his own keys.
But now his fingers tingled as he pulled a long, slender pick free and used it to flip the lock on one of the ancient casement windows.
So much for those points he’d given her for security in the hallway.
You’re probably the only one mad enough to try, he told himself as he took a deep breath and slid the window up. Either she wasn't home, or she was about to get one hell of a surprise. He prayed it was the former.
Her bedroom, like the rest of the building, had a feeling of age not yet going to seed, but also not too far off.
It was decorated in blues and golds, but full of contradictions.
The bed was neatly made but the floor was strewn with clothes.
The room did not have a closet, but the clothing rod made from tarnished metal pipe held a dizzying array of color interspersed with an equally boring selection of threadbare cozy sweaters and hoodies.
She had a flare for decorating for sure, but what really stood out to him was the lack of anything personal, anything that just screamed out "Jal.
" Sure, the room smelled faintly of vanilla from a bottle of perfume on her dresser, but there were no mementos, no sports memorabilia or pop culture anything to tell him a little something about her.
Only a lone strip of photo booth pictures tucked into the mirror of her dresser gave him even a hint.
Jal and two other women were crowded into the cramped off-white space making silly faces for the camera.
Jal sat with one arm wrapped around the shoulders of a blonde beauty, while a no-less-stunning Latina sprawled over both their laps.
They were all dressed for a night out and looked thick as, well, thieves.
Jal was beaming, her whole face aglow, so different from any expression he had seen on her before.
It drove the air from his lungs, and for one irrational moment, no longer than a few heartbeats, he wondered what it would take for her to look at him with an expression like that.
He drove that thought down and forced himself to walk away before she came home and caught him staring.
He moved to the door and briefly put an ear to the wood.
Hearing nothing, Ciaran eased it open and stepped through into a single room that was living room, kitchen, and dining room all in one.
It had the same high ceiling as the bedroom, but his architect’s brain marveled at how it seemed to soar even higher out here with the larger, taller windows that let in much more light.
A brick fireplace with a large granite mantle dominated the space on the wall to his left, its exposed chimney climbing until it disappeared into the ceiling between two massive beams supporting the floor above.
In the middle of the dining area stood a huge antique table made of some light-colored wood.
Figuring the kitchen to be the best place to start, Ciaran sifted through the drawers and cupboards, but came up empty.
She had to have some, if not all, of her takings in the apartment. Banks tended to ask too many questions… So, where would she have put them?
He turned a slow circle, his eyes searching for shadowy spaces, odd scratches on the floor, any possible clue.
Back in Scotland, he'd kept most of his stash under a loose floorboard in the back of his bedroom closet, but there were plenty of other possibilities in a place like this, so he just started poking into every possible nook.
His first success was a roll of bills inside a pizza box in the freezer. He chuckled at the obviousness of that one, but left the money alone. It only helped to convince him that she had far, far, more clever places.
He found the next one in the desk under a window dividing the living and dining areas.
A false bottom in a middle drawer concealed an impressive hoard of foreign coins and a few jewels.
He pocketed a few of the smaller baubles before replacing the cover and the small stack of files and a battered notebook that sat on top.
He moved on to the fireplace. There had to be something there, but the flue was empty and none of the bricks moved when he pushed on them.
He tapped a finger on his chin as he studied row after row of identical bricks.
Just as he was thinking of giving up, his eyes fell on a brick just under the granite mantle that stuck out just a fraction of an inch farther than its companions.
The mortar was very slightly chipped, and gone completely in one corner.
A new rush of adrenaline went through him as he gripped the brick and gently gave it a tug.
At first, it didn't budge, but with a bit more pressure, it started to move.
This must be it, he thought.
With the closest thing to a pop that masonry could manage, the brick came free, and inside the small depression was likely her biggest stash, a couple grand in cash, a stunning blue sapphire bracelet, and a large diamond pendant.
He'd pocketed most of it before he even realized what he was doing.
He froze, staring down at the sapphire in his hand.
What are you doing, lad?
He flipped the bracelet around in his hand, running his thumb over the facets of a stone the size of his thumbnail.
The band was a wide braid of dozens of thin silver strands, each with different textures.
This too was headed for his overloaded pocket before he stopped himself.
His hand trembled as he returned the bracelet to the hiding place, the old Ciaran battling, but ultimately losing, to the new.
He slid the brick back into place and resumed his search, locating another in the bedroom, in the floor next to her dresser. But still no wallet.
He had already lingered too long; she would be home soon.
Dejected, he headed for the open window but stopped halfway when an idea struck him.
A slow smile spread across his face as he withdrew his leg and ran for the desk to tear a couple of pages from the notebook and scribble a message on each.
He raced around the apartment and placed the same note in each hiding place, draining a little more of the treasures in each until his pockets were fit to burst.
He turned away from the fireplace to study the room, slowly spinning an emerald tennis bracelet around his hand as if it were a rosary.
He spotted a heating vent on the wall just outside the kitchen that he'd missed the first time and strode toward it.
His toe caught the edge of the living room throw rug and he tried to catch his balance, only to stagger awkwardly into the back of the sofa and crash to the floor with a jarring thud.
The bracelet flew out of his hand and slid under the table.
By some miracle, he hadn’t hit his head, but his brain still sloshed around in his skull as if he had.
With a groan, Ciaran dragged his knees underneath him and took deep breaths until his stomach settled and his vision cleared enough to crawl across the rug to retrieve the bracelet.
As he did, he studied the underside of the table though nothing seemed out of place, even to his practiced eye.
But something told him to keep looking so he stayed on his back, studying the skirting and the scrollwork on the legs until, wait, what was that?
He wormed on his back over to one of the legs and slid his hand up, his fingers finding the edges of a small wooden catch almost completely hidden at the top of one leg.
Curious, Ciaran pushed it and heard a soft click.
Scrambling back to his feet, he swayed as the room spun.
When it settled, he gaped at a section of the table skirting that had popped loose and pulled open the drawer and sifted through its contents, some cash, and a few wallets, including his own.
He flipped through it and found nothing missing besides a few hundred dollars in cash.
His ID and all his cards, most of which didn't even work, were still there.
Halfway into his pocket, he paused, his mouth splitting into a wide grin.
He put the wallet back where it had been, added a note on top, and slid it closed.
He had just placed the last note in her dresser when he heard the clatter of keys against the front door and froze.
Silently, he hurried into her bedroom and eased an eye around the frame.
She entered the apartment, flipped all the locks, and went immediately to the stove.
Putting the kettle on, she slumped into one of the couches, unaware that there was anything amiss.
A moment later, an ear-numbing blast of synthesized keyboards and electric guitar of some decades-old alternative song filled the air.
Under cover of the deep voice that boomed out the lyrics somewhere between singing and growling, Ciaran crept to the window.
He froze when a floorboard creaked, then took a chance and scrambled through the window, sliding it shut as quietly as he could.
From where he crouched on the fire escape, he could just make out Jal’s dark curls bobbing in time to the music, and he heaved a sigh, bracing a hand on the wall when his knees went suddenly weak.
So much for the nerves of steel he’d prided himself on back home.
He pushed off the wall and found his legs unsteady enough on the descent that he had to rely heavily on the railings.
He made it down two floors before a woman noticed him outside her window and threw a flowerpot at his head.
He ducked and half-ran, half-stumbled the rest of the way, not caring who heard.
A new surge of adrenaline gave him the boost he needed to sprint for the subway station, his heavy pockets swinging with enough force, he was surprised they didn’t burst. By pure luck, he caught a train pulling up to the platform and picked up the pace, his feet a blur on the stairs, dashing aboard just as the doors began to close only to crash into a disheveled man in a fraying coat who was standing in the doorway.
The stench of body odor and urine radiating off the man had Ciaran swallowing back bile as he leapt away, apologizing as he went when the man swung a fist and cursed at him.
Ciaran moved through the crowd as politely as he could to the other set of doors to get some distance, and though the man didn’t come any closer, he continued to yell the whole way downtown.
By the time Ciaran emerged back at street level a few blocks from home, his legs were shaking so hard, the treasure in his pocket like so much lead weight, putting one foot in front of the other had him staggering like one of those television zombies.
He gave serious thought to crawling up the last stairs into his apartment and collapsed hard on a kitchen chair, dragging in one raggedy breath after another until his heart finally slowed to normal.
He emptied his pockets onto the table and marveled at the piles of money, coins, and jewels that covered its surface. But this time, there was none of the heady exhilaration that he'd felt dozens of times back in Glasgow. This time, there was only a cold emptiness.
After a hot shower and a gallon of scalding hot tea, he spent the evening putting the pieces of his plan in place.
The dinner reservation. Calling in the favors he needed to turn almost everything into cash at rates that even criminals would deem fair.
But afterwards, he found himself restless, pacing the runner between kitchen and bedroom.
The sun was just starting to color the sky when he left his house, but instead of heading downtown to the office, he went uptown.
A young brunette dressed in a business suit blinked blearily at him as she sipped from her travel mug and held open the door to Jal's building as she was coming out.
Her heavily-lashed blue eyes widened, and spots of pink appeared on her cheeks, when he flashed her a wide, grateful smile.
His smile faded as he climbed the stairs and stopped in front of her door. For a long moment, he stared at the peephole, as if it would let him look inside if he stared at it long enough.
Just knock, he ordered himself.
His heart pounded once, twice, the sound too loud even for his own ears and he shook his head and shoulders, like a dog shedding water, to clear it.
He smoothed his hands over his hair, straightened his coat and let a little of the cocky, over-confidence of Ciaran the thief rise to the surface, then lifted his hand and pressed it firmly to the doorbell.
Present Day
Ciaran glanced at his watch and swore. He tucked a twenty under his coffee cup, more than enough to pay for his lunch and a tip, and headed back to the office, his long legs chewing up the distance at a clip he usually saved for the football pitch.
Cliff wouldn’t mind him coming back from lunch a little late, or a lot late in this case, but Lional Dougherty, who most referred to not-so-affectionately as Old Man Dougherty, had it in for him, despite Ciaran never having done anything to antagonize him.
Something rubbed the man the wrong way. He never approved of Ciaran’s work, though to be fair, OMD never gave him any decent projects in the first place.
But Ciaran had made the best of everything he had been given and Cliff and Julia Russo, the firm’s other senior partner, were highly impressed by his work ethic and his results. Just not Lionel.
He needn't have worried. No one, not even his desk mate Catherine, even noticed his late return. Ciaran put in a few more hours sculpting the new high-rise on the computer before Cliff poked his head out of his office. “Ready for the game?” He asked, waving the tickets.
Ciaran looked up and nodded. “I totally forgot about that.”
“Let’s go then.”