Chapter 20
Chapter 20
Watching someone get shot was nothing like Jane thought it would be. Or nothing like in the movies, which were Jane’s only point of reference. (Then again, having sex for the first time was disappointingly nothing like Dirty Dancing had led her to believe it would be, so she’s not sure why she’s surprised.) For one, Otto didn’t scream right away. In fact, his face didn’t change at all, for so long that Jane wasn’t sure he had been shot.
“Calm down,” Brick says. “It’s not like I shot you.”
Oh, thank God , Jane thinks, a wave of relief washing over her—though the information does nothing to calm her heart rate, which took off like a sprinter from the starting blocks at the sound of the gunshot.
“You could have!” Otto shrieks.
“I could have,” Brick agrees, and Jane wonders if that’s true. Sissy said all the guns had blanks—except for Isaac’s, obviously—but maybe Brick was lying about that, too. Maybe none of the guns had blanks. She strains her neck to try to see the wall behind Otto—is there a bullet hole in it?—but there’s a table in her line of sight and she can’t tell. “Which is why you will confirm your purchase to the credit card company when they call.”
Jane blinks, dumbfounded, as the entire money scheme she wrote plays out in front of her eyes. She got the idea for Tea Is for Terror after reading a newspaper article about some billionaire purchasing the $36.3 million Ming dynasty teacup from a Sotheby’s auction on a whim with his credit card. After getting over the shock that anyone anywhere would spend $36.3 million on a piece of porcelain, she focused on the fact that the man’s credit limit was clearly nonexistent—and then, as novelists do, she wondered how a thief could take advantage of that. She interviewed cybercrime experts and learned about IP spoofing, malware viruses, keylogging, wire transfers, and money mules. She learned how smart hackers bounce the money, once stolen, through multiple accounts with different owners, across jurisdictions, making it nearly impossible to trace, or at least allowing time for a thief to be long gone while all foreign state departments and investigators are figuring out how to communicate with each other and get through the legal red tape. And with just enough knowledge to be dangerous, Jane concocted a simple yet clever money heist and added the terrorist takeover of a teahouse for maximum dramatic effect.
But, of course, it’s also a plan that she knows would never work in real life. Not only would real-life hackers figure out a much less dramatic way to steal someone’s money, but, as writers are wont to do, Jane fudged a key element to make her plan work for the sake of her book. Artistic license and all. (Something else that odious Stephen with a ph clearly knows nothing about. Nobody nitpicks the Mission: Impossible movies or the James Bond franchise or every movie Jason Statham has ever been in for their implausible schemes. Why? Oh, don’t get Jane started.)
Jane studies Brick, scrutinizing him. There was so much setup he had to do to make this work—gaining access to the restaurant’s bank account, making sure Otto would be here (which he managed through Isaac falsely befriending Paisley, though that clearly wasn’t foolproof), planting the van and the bomb—and while Jane is impressed and even flattered Brick found her heist clever enough to emulate, he surely is smart enough to have done his own basic research and realize the major flaw in the plan?
Or does he know something Jane doesn’t?
“Monica? Go ahead and run it,” Brick says, and Jane closes her mouth and swallows, refocusing on the most pressing matter—on the off chance Jane is wrong, if this purchase goes through, her daughter is one step closer to adding armed robbery to her rap sheet, and Jane will be damned if she’s going to let that happen. And that’s when she notices the outlet on the wall just to the left of Dan’s chair legs. And the cord running from the outlet to the hostess stand. Sometimes having the worst table in the house pays off.
“Dan,” she hisses, kicking him under the table for good measure, as Monica punches in numbers on the keypad at the hostess stand. When Dan looks at her, she shifts her eyes dramatically toward the plug. He follows her gaze, and then looks back at her blankly. Ohforthelove . “Un. Plug. It,” she says through clenched teeth.
And Dan—lo and behold—comprehends what she’s saying and manages to yank the plug out of the wall the second before Monica swipes the credit card.
Monica frowns.
“What?” Brick says.
“I don’t know. The machine just died.”
Brick strides past Jane and Dan’s table to the hostess stand, where he peers over Monica’s shoulder. Then his gaze follows the cord down, along the wall to where the plug rests a foot away from Dan’s chair leg. Brick’s boots strike the wood floor with heavy thuds as he closes the gap between the hostess stand and Dan. He bends over, picks up the plug, and examines it, then looks up at Dan, causing Jane’s heart to stop completely. What has she done?
“Did you unplug this?”
Dan’s Adam’s apple bobs so dramatically it looks like he’s swallowed a Ping-Pong ball. “No,” he says, and if his tomato-red face weren’t enough to betray the lie, the high-pitched crack in his voice certainly is. God, he’s always been the worst liar. Jane’s amazed he got away with his affair for as long as he did.
Brick lifts his left brow while his right brow dips—an inverted seesaw. “Really,” he says, firmly sticking the plug back in the outlet. Dan smartly doesn’t respond and Brick stands, crossing his arms and creating a barrier with his body between Dan and the wall. He cuts his eyes to Monica. “Try it again.”
Monica swipes the card once more, stares at the machine, and then nods at Brick when the charge ostensibly has gone through.
Shit, shit, shit. Now, as Jane learned from interviewing an account manager at a credit card company—and as Otto rightly predicted—a representative from the company is going to call Otto’s cell phone to confirm the charges, and what can Jane do to stop that? The booster is across the room next to Tink, so there’s no unplugging it (not that that brilliant plan did anything but delay the inevitable). Jane breaks out in a cold sweat as she glances around the room. Her eyes light on the red rectangle fire alarm, next to the door of the kitchen, close to their table, but out of arm’s reach even if Dan stood.
Like clockwork, Brick’s pocket starts buzzing. He nods at Lyle—silently instructing him to put Monica back on the wall—and then Brick pulls Otto’s phone out, walking around Jane and Dan’s table toward the billionaire. “I’m putting it on speaker. No funny business,” he says, but he glances back pointedly at Dan and Jane when he says it, and Jane knows he has given them one pass and likely won’t give them another. “You ready?”
“Fine,” Otto says.
Brick swipes the phone screen with his thumb and holds it up close to Otto’s chin.
“Hello,” Otto says calmly.
A reedy voice on the other end that Jane has to strain to hear says: “Mr.St. Clair, this is Daniel Okonyo with Hyperion Credit. How are you, sir?”
“Doing good, thank you, and yourself?”
“Fine, sir. I’m obligated to tell you we’re recording this call and using our voice-recognition software. Can you please repeat your security phrase in order to confirm your identity?”
“Yes,” Otto says, and clears his throat. “One-One was a racehorse. Two-Two was one, too. When One-One won one race, Two-Two won one, too.”
“Wonderful,” Daniel says. “It appears you’re having a lovely dinner at La Fin du Monde, is this correct?”
“Yes,” Otto pauses. “Just lovely.”
“That’s good to hear. I’m calling to confirm a charge from the restaurant for nine million, six hundred and fifty-two thousand, five hundred dollars. Is this correct?”
Otto’s eyes widen slightly and he says, “One moment, please.” Brick covers the receiver, waiting. “I thought it was nine million even.”
“Plus seven and a quarter percent sales tax,” Monica squeaks from where she’s once again sitting next to Javier.
“Ah. Of course.” Otto glares at Brick and gives him a curt nod, and Brick removes his hand from the mouthpiece. “Yes, that’s the correct figure.”
“Wonderful. If you could please give me your four-digit security code, we’ll get that processed for you right away.”
“Certainly.” Otto clears his throat. “Two-zero-one-four.”
The man on the other end doesn’t respond right away, and Brick’s bicep twitches as he clenches the phone tighter in his grip.
“Thank you, sir,” the voice says. “Thank you for being a valued Hyperion customer, and enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Otto nods curtly once more and stares at Brick as he swipes to end the call. Then Brick walks over to the wall of windows and stands in front of the far-left panel, a pane of glass the size of a door that Jane hadn’t noticed before but is separated from the huge picture window by a strip of wood. Brick unlatches it, and the glass opens outward on a hinge. Jane can’t tell if it’s her imagination or the wind—or if the sound she hears is actually the roar of the ocean, crashing onto the rocks miles below the restaurant. While Jane knows the back of the restaurant must be at least ten feet from the edge of the cliff, looking out into the vast darkness, it’s hard not to imagine the drop is right there, directly below the window. Brick winds back his arm and pitches Otto’s cell phone out into the black night.
“Are you fucking kidding?” Otto shouts. “My entire life is on there.” But Brick ignores him and pulls the window shut, latching it with a flick of his thumb and a satisfying click. The room is silent for a minute and then a whoop comes from the corner where Lyle is sitting. He pops up, a grin plastered on his face. “Is that it? We did it?”
Brick holds up a hand. “Almost. Tink has to work her magic once the charge goes through.”
“I’m pulling up the account now,” she says.
The only sound is the click-clack of the keys as Tink furiously types on her laptop, but the energy of the room has shifted. It feels lighter, more buoyant. Less like a hostage situation and more like a group of kids at Coachella. Even Sissy’s eyes are crinkled in a smile.
Jane holds her breath, staring daggers at Tink. There’s no way this works. There’s no way, there’s no way, there’s no way.
“You’re not going to get away with this,” Otto says, breaking the silence. “No one steals money from me and gets away with it.”
POP!
Terror rips through Jane, causing her to duck on instinct, until she realizes the sound wasn’t another gunshot or a bomb exploding, but Isaac opening the champagne he brought up from the cellar.
“What the hell, Isaac?” Tink says, glowering at him, and then training her gaze back on the screen.
“What? I’m celebrating,” he says, taking a swig from the bottle, then holding it out to Tink.
“We’re not done,” she replies. The click-clacking of her keys has fallen silent. “We’re waiting for the money.”
“It could take up to fifteen minutes,” Brick says. “Refresh every thirty seconds or so.”
Fifteen minutes ? Jane nearly laughs out loud.
Tink merely nods. A buzzing emanates from the table she’s working on. She looks back up at Brick. “It’s the police again. Second time they’ve called.”
“Ignore it,” Brick says. “We’re almost done.”
After a minute or so of semi-silence—the only sound in the room is Isaac taking sulky pulls from his bottle in the corner—Otto speaks up: “I have a question.”
Brick continues ignoring him, keeping his eyes trained on Tink’s screen. He puts his thumb up to his mouth and starts chewing on the nail.
“Why did you need me?” Otto says. “Surely you know—since you know everything else—that my wife has a no-limit Hyperion card as well.”
Brick stops chewing, but still doesn’t respond.
“Brick?” Jeremy says. “Is that true? Did you know about Vaughn’s card?”
“Of course not.”
“Hm.” Otto grunts and continues as if Brick hasn’t spoken. “No, this is personal. You wanted to take the money from me , didn’t you? You wanted the satisfaction of it.”
“You.” Brick points at him. “Shut it.”
Otto ignores the directive. “I do know you. I must. Or you know me. But the question is how .”
Brick stares at him thunderously, and it suddenly becomes clear to Jane and everyone in the room that Otto must be telling the truth. He does know Brick.
“Brick? What’s he talking about?” Jeremy tries again.
“Brick?” Lyle echoes.
“Jesus Christ,” Brick mutters, and then says, louder, “The SierraX Competition. Two thousand thirteen. Does that ring a bell?”
“Oh!” Otto says, and Jane can see that it does. And then another look of confusion settles on Otto’s face: “You won, right? You got your money—what exactly are you mad about?”
A fury envelops Brick so completely that it makes his earlier countenance, when Jane thought he looked murderous, pale in comparison. He grips the body of his gun so tight the dark knuckles turn white as the bone beneath the skin. His teeth clench, causing his strong jawline to become even more pronounced. Finally, he opens his lips just wide enough to say: “You stole my idea.” He says it so low, Jane isn’t even sure she heard him correctly.
“What?” Otto says.
“You. Stole. My. Idea.”
Otto lets out a puff of laughter. “I didn’t steal a thing. You signed away the rights to your invention. It’s not my fault you were too stupid to see the financial opportunity right in front of your nose.”
Jane’s not sure if it’s the name-calling or if Otto saying the word nose gave Brick a fit of inspiration, but it’s all the provocation Brick needs. He clenches the knuckles on his right hand, cocks his fist back, and slams it into Otto’s face with all his might.
“My nose!” Otto screams in a garbled sound.
Jane stares as blood gushes out of Otto’s nostrils; she can hear Paisley crying so hard from two tables over, you’d think she was the one who got punched.
“Paisley, he’s OK. He’s going to be OK,” Vaughn repeats over and over.
“Brick! Jesus,” Tink says. She stands and grabs a napkin from the nearest table and holds it to Otto’s face.
“He deserved it,” Brick says, his eyes so dark they’re black. Then, as if he slightly regrets his impetuousness, he sighs. “Isaac. Get a glass of water for Mr.St. Clair, please.”
“Sure, boss,” Isaac says, and Jane can’t put her finger on what irks her about his response, until she realizes Isaac called Brick boss without an ounce of sarcasm. She stares at him as he takes off to the kitchen, and notes a glimmer of an evil grin on the kid’s face.
Jane freezes. A glass of water. In the hullabaloo of Brick and Otto knowing each other, and the idea of Sissy going to prison for the rest of her natural life, Jane had all but forgotten a key plot point in her book, after the theft but before the bomb. The cup of tea! They offer it to the CEO they’re stealing from after they steal from him. But it’s spiked with strychnine, a clear, odorless poison that in a large enough dose is fatal instantly. It’s obvious Brick hates Otto, but surely he doesn’t plan to kill the man right in front of everyone. She stares, wide-eyed, as Isaac returns from the kitchen with a crystal goblet full of water—when there were plenty of glasses on the tables, and a water pitcher at the hostess stand.
Her heartbeat revs as Isaac closes the gap to Otto. What if it is poison? Otto may be kind of a pompous asshole, but he doesn’t deserve to die .
Isaac holds the glass to Otto’s lips and Jane screams: “No!”
“Jane!” Dan shouts, the word infused with fear.
But Jane ignores him. “Don’t drink it! It’s poison!”