Chapter Twelve
Twelve
Shortly after Dante’s death, I was in New York, having just had my confidence shattered after trying and failing to break into the Nightshades headquarters. I was walking through Times Square, sulking and generally indulging in self-pity, when I got pickpocketed.
I’d like to say I noticed right away, but we don’t always get what we want. It wasn’t until I tried to pay for dinner (street cart hot dog, extra relish, no mustard) that I discovered I was missing all the cash from my wallet, along with the necklace my dad had given me for my first job.
I retraced my steps back to Times Square and began people watching, noticing the faces I saw over and over.
Eventually, I started recognizing patterns in their movements—standing too close to someone, suddenly changing directions.
I watched those people closer until I began to see the trick of it.
The pressure of a hand on a shoulder while unclasping a watch with the other.
The jostle when lifting someone’s wallet out of their pocket.
The handoff when thieves were working in pairs.
When I saw a short, curly-haired boy about my age unclasp a necklace from a woman’s neck, so effortlessly I almost missed it, I knew I’d found the culprit. I tried to tail him, but he spotted me instantly, and I lost him in a mess of construction and food carts.
I spent three days trying to catch him, with no success. But now it’s not just me.
I have a crew.
Once again, I find myself sulking in the middle of Times Square. Sun high, the wind whipping the collar of my trench coat. I’ve got a blond wig and glasses thick enough to hide my features. It’s too cold for a skirt, so I’ve opted for creased slacks and shoes with what Poppy calls “business heels.”
It’s been hours, and there’s still no sign of our guy.
I have to admit to myself that he might have moved on to a different location.
Or maybe he’s taking the day off. But the All Saints Gala is in two weeks, so we have a ticking clock.
If we don’t find this guy today, we need to start planning to do the job without an acrobat friend.
Tolliver and CJ are dressed as tourists.
Much to Tolliver’s chagrin, he’s wearing one of those I ? NY T-shirts under his leather jacket.
CJ has a bag slung over their shoulder, dark glasses, and a hat that shades their face.
Both have their cell phones out, snapping pictures at everything that moves.
They’re a little conspicuous, if you ask me, but whatever.
I track them as they slowly make their way toward me down Seventh Avenue.
I’m watching a street performer, because it’s really the only way to justify standing still in Manhattan.
The busker is Poppy, who’s wearing a sequined dress that hugs her curves and a Tina Turner wig that she demanded to wear, even though it means she’s going to have to get her braids redone.
She sings “Femininomenon” at the top of her lungs, accompanied by an app on her phone and a wireless speaker. Honestly, she’s gathered up quite a crowd. The list of things Poppy can’t do is very short.
Singing is at the top of that list.
But everyone likes to watch a train wreck. Besides, she’s hot and has killer stage presence.
Tolliver and CJ get closer and closer, and I’ve yet to see a single person try to pickpocket them. Again, they’re a little too obvious, but also the crowd is thin today. Too thin for an easy grab. This might turn out to be a wasted trip.
Poppy ends her song, and I reach into my pocket to get some coins to throw into her basket, and—
No.
No, no, no, no, no!
The coins, my house key, a half-used tube of ChapStick: all gone. My pocket isn’t empty, though. My hands clasp around something, and I pull out a little white sticky note. It reads:
Thanks for the necklace! Kisses! —E
I whip my head around. I don’t know how long it’s been since he made the grab, but Poppy only just finished her first song.
Granted, this guy can get pretty far in a few minutes.
I scan the crowd, looking for the mop of dark curly hair, but I know it’s useless.
Wherever this guy is, he’s surely not still hanging around.
But then I see him. He’s about thirty feet away, hands in pockets, staring right at me. He grins and gives me a mock salute.
He’s showing off.
Alright, the time for subtlety is over. I take off after him. Poppy’s footsteps echo behind me, and I know Tolliver and CJ will see and try to cut the pickpocket off from the other direction.
I weave through the crowd, past tourists snapping selfies and staring at billboards. I have to shove a few people out of my way, dodge some schoolchildren, and leap over a dog. Ahead, I see the thief pull up the hood of his jacket just as he darts into traffic.
“Wait!” I hear Tolliver call after me, as I follow into the street.
A car honks and nearly takes me out, but I sidestep—
—into the path of another oncoming vehicle. It slams to a stop inches from me. The ensuing burst of adrenaline catapults me across the road and onto the curb, but I’ve already lost him.
I turn in a circle, search the crowd for a dark jacket, but there are far too many.
Fortunately, CJ has been tracking him from across the street. I get a text from them that says:
left
I turn. There’s someone in a Spider-Man costume.
My phone buzzes again.
other left
There. Right next to a hot dog cart, jacket now gone, curly hair and a navy T-shirt. He’s not looking my way, but he must somehow feel my eyes on him, because he takes off down a side street, under some scaffolding.
I have to hurdle over a street artist’s setup, tripping as I land. I’m able to turn it into a roll and use my momentum to get me back on my feet.
I round the corner, breathing heavily, and smack into Tolliver.
He grabs me by the shoulders to steady me.
“Where’d he go?” I jerk away, scanning the area.
Tolliver shakes his head. “He didn’t come this way.”
“No, I just saw him.”
Tolliver and I stare at each other for a moment and then look up. Thirty feet above us, the thief is hanging off the side of some scaffolding. He jumps across to the nearby building, grasping the sill of an open window. He heaves himself up, turns to give us a wink, and climbs in.
I lean my hands on my knees and breathe. Sometimes corporeal bodies suck. Chasing people through the Afterlife is never this tiring.
I look up at Tolliver, who’s watching me carefully. Everything shows on his face, but right now he has an expression I’ve never seen before, his brow furrowed, mouth slightly curved up in a smile, and oh god, I think this is pity. He feels pity for me, and you know what, I can’t blame him.
Dante never had a job go wrong. When my parents disappeared, he fell into their role as easily as breathing.
There was no adjustment period, no learning curve.
Over the past year, I’ve failed at as many jobs as I’ve succeeded, and I told myself it was because I didn’t have a crew.
But maybe it’s just me. And based on the look on Tolliver’s face, maybe the crew knows it.
Maybe they’ve just been humoring me.
Screw it. This is not how this job ends.
(Rule #17: Know when to walk away.)
(Sorry, Dante.)
I square my shoulder and start taking stock of the exits on this side of the building.
Tolliver clears his throat. “Elle?”
“Shush!” I demand, running through my options.
The window the thief disappeared into is probably on the third floor, so we’re most likely looking at office space or condos.
I’m guessing condos, since the windows can open.
Scaffolding on the side of the building means construction, which can be loud and dangerous.
No one would leave a window open to scaffolding.
And the thief moved so quickly. Almost like he knew it was there.
I pull the note out of my pocket. There’s a stylized, metallic letter P in the corner. Some company’s swag that must have been easy to grab.
I take out my phone and text the group chat.
he’s squatting this block 3rd floor nw corner
Tolliver’s phone buzzes, and he looks at it, then looks at me. I grin.
It is a hunch. Intuition. I can’t explain how I know, and honestly, there’s a good chance I’m wrong, but I’ve run out of options.
Thirty seconds later, we get a text from CJ.
Palladium Towers gimme a min
CJ is The Best? at Googling. Two minutes later, we have the specs for the building, plus the address of the condo facing the scaffolding, and the locations of the building entrances.
Tolliver and I choose one and don’t have to wait long for someone to use their code to open the door. I catch it with my foot before it can fully close, and just that easy, we have access.
The specific condo is not hard to find. We take the stairs to the third floor and check the numbers until we’re standing in front of a black door with 3D in gold right above the peephole.
The plan is to flush him out the window, where CJ and Poppy are waiting below. We’re stunned, then, when the thief opens the door and stares at us.
He’s still in his navy T-shirt and jeans, his curly hair mussed. He tugs at his ear. “Look, this has been fun. But whatever the job is, the answer’s no. I don’t do the whole team thing.”
I look past him into the condo. I expect quiet luxury, or, hell, even loud luxury, but while the space is large for a Manhattan apartment, it’s pretty bland.
My guess is the owner has too many properties to keep track of and this one fell through the cracks.
Maybe the thief fudged some paperwork to keep people from asking questions. At any rate, this place isn’t a home.
I pull out the sticky note he left in my pocket and uncap my pen with my teeth.
“Oh, we’re doing the write-a-number-down thing?” he asks, unimpressed.
I finish jotting down his cut and hand him the paper. His expression doesn’t change, but he does go utterly still. Finally, he looks back up at me.
“What’s the job?”