CHAPTER TEN
CASH
I’m admittedly starstruck, which is a rarity for me.
I’ve met all types of famous and revered people, but Sterling and Heath pulled art heists that any illusionist or con man has to admire.
They were epic. And their fall was tragic.
Until their capture—or Heath’s—they were known as The Mailers because it was suspected that they often shipped the stolen art to various PO Boxes right from the facility, leaving them free to walk out empty-handed.
Their arrest and Heath’s gallant insistence that his wife had nothing to do with his crime—a job pulled after years of being out of the scene—won him praise in the media.
He was a thief, but also a devoted husband, a family man, and a charismatic personality, who’d simply slipped into an old way of life.
His face was everywhere. He even landed a remote interview on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon.
He was so charming that it became a must-watch segment.
The court never could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was responsible for the countless missing pieces in the decades before that.
But one misstep was enough to bring him down, even if they couldn’t tie Sterling to it beyond the profiling from their previous jobs.
People latched on to Heath’s over-the-top love for his wife so tightly that the world grieved when he was sentenced and even more when he was killed.
Of course, every ounce of awe and melancholy is amplified for me since it concerns Sylvie.
The only honor that could outdo the monumental thrill of being in the home of one of my idols is being in a home that is special to her.
There aren’t a lot of pictures—only some artistic black-and-white candids of who I’m assuming are Sylvie and her sister when they were small—or overtly personal touches anywhere, but that’s common for those who may need to get out of town at a moment’s notice.
Even going legit doesn’t change that mindset.
There’s always a chance the past will bite them in the ass.
It still seems like an insider’s glimpse. The house—with its coastal chic interior design—has been owned by S. Palmer for fifteen years, so Sylvie spent some of her teen years here.
I didn’t expect to be so captivated by getting another piece of her.
Maybe I should have. I’ve been obsessed with every version—cat burglar, motorcycle stunt rider, elegant party guest, and city girl.
But this? Relaxing at home with a glass of wine, her hair half up, casual attire, and bare feet? I’m ruined.
Seconds after I help Sylvie back to her chair because my promise to destroy our friendship with orgasmic bliss made her lightheaded—a good fucking sign—Sterling emerges with my drink.
“Better pull it together, Sly,” I whisper with a wink, and her lashes flutter with her annoyance.
“Here you go, Cash.” Sterling hands me a three-quarters-filled rocks glass. “I have the guest room all set for you too.”
“Thank you.” I ignore the heat of Sylvie’s gaze on me—a telepathic plea for me to declare that I’ll be leaving. “I apologize for dropping in unannounced. I don’t want to be a bother. I knew Sylvie had hurt her ankle, and I was worried.”
“Well, as Sylvie said earlier, that’s ridiculous.” She brandishes a crooked smile, a tad mocking. “But it’s also kind of sweet.” Then she glances at her daughter, her lips scrunching playfully. “Oh my. Have you had too much …” She trails off, bending to tap Sylvie’s glass, but it’s clearly a code.
“Too much wine,” Sylvie finally fills in, not so slyly. “I think I have. Maybe I’ll take a shower.” She follows that up with a barely audible and hissed, “Be good.”
I stifle a chuckle and nearly offer to help, but that likely wouldn’t be well received, so I relish the Pappy Van Winkle and keep my mouth shut.
Once Sylvie heads to the shower with only a slight hobble to her gait, Sterling plucks her wine from a side table, struts to a door on the other side of the lanai, and barks an order over her shoulder, “C’mon. The breeze is dying down, so the no-see-ums will be bursting through that screen.”
We filter into an office. The same wood ceiling from the lanai carries in here, but the beachy blues are replaced with slate on the walls and shelves, immediately lending a heaviness. I have a hunch I’m about to be interrogated.
She points to a sleek silver armchair. “Sit.”
I do.
Taking a seat at the desk, she doesn’t hesitate to dive in. “You’re tracking my daughter. Or having her followed?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck,” she bellows, pulling what looks to be an antique gold cigarette case out of her desk drawer. “I missed how obstinate and elusive people in the business are. Care to tell me why?”
She waves the open case at me, and while I’m not a regular smoker, I indulge on very rare occasions.
I move to take one, setting my glass on the desk in front of her so I can pluck one out.
When she goes to grab the lighter that she pulled out of the drawer, she glances from the empty spot left in its wake to the flame in my hand, and a smile illuminates her face.
She leans forward to light her cigarette. “You distracted me with your glass.”
I light mine, return the lighter, grab my glass, and internally pump my fist because I just pulled a trick on one of the most legendary cons. “Yes.”
“Well, now I know to keep both eyes on you at all times.” She puffs away and studies me as I resume my seat.
“There’s an ashtray in that end table drawer.
” She gestures beside me, and while I grab it, she goes on.
“The sleight of hand wasn’t enough distraction for me to forget about you tracking Sylvie. ”
“My reasoning is twofold,” I begin, inhaling the hit of nicotine and slowly releasing it.
“The first being that after our initial meeting, she promised me I could buy her dinner if I figured out her name. I spent weeks working to do just that, only for her not to make good on her promise. So, I needed to know where she was headed.”
“Your need to know where she was headed was after San Francisco,” she says, revealing how much her daughter divulges to her.
That’s good. Maybe I can get some answers.
“Yes. And the second reason is that I’ve been concerned about her. I just want to know she’s safe.”
She pecks the stem of her wineglass with her nail, pondering something.
“Her father was her hero, her knight in shining armor. It was tragic how it all went down. Despicable. Sylvie had a rough time for a while after he was killed, but she’s the strongest person I know.
Even stronger than her sister, and Flora, well …
” She shakes her head. “My daughters are both warriors, but strength comes in various forms. Some find it in an effort to overcome a weakness. Others become it so those around them don’t have to. ”
“And Sylvie’s the latter?”
“Yes,” she breathes, as if that pains her. “She’s always been everyone’s anchor, but even anchors need something to grip.”
“So, you’re saying she’s drifting,” I surmise.
“Sylvie doesn’t drift.” She raises her palm to refute the notion of her daughter struggling, but conflict still wars in her eyes. “She’s in a damn storm though. She would’ve been fine. She was finding her way. But then that prick … God, he fucked her over.”
“Danny Gordon?” I ask, and when she dips her chin, I hold my breath, hoping she’ll fill in some of the missing pieces. “She hasn’t told me what happened.”
“I assumed she hadn’t.” Her brows knit into a line as she scrutinizes me through another puff of her cigarette. “When she does, you can’t kill him.”
Every muscle in my body tenses, and despite her demand, a murderous wrath courses through my veins. “That warrants further explanation. I didn’t peg you as a raving hockey fan. Are you protecting him or her?”
It’s clear in her demeanor that she isn’t protecting him, but inciting her is my best chance at getting details.
She snickers, cool and collected. “I’d have his head up on the shelf with that Mardi Gras mask if it wouldn’t make things worse for her.”
A theory I had a while ago solidifies with that, but I’ll save that interrogation for Sylvie. For now, I simply tip my glass. “Noted.”
Sterling sips her wine, quietly appraising me. “Noires don’t chase people. They expect everyone to come to them. But here you are.”
“Here I am.”
“And this friend bullshit?”
“Her idea.”
“Your reputation for having a different lady every night?”
“Accurate.” I ash my cigarette and meet her eyes. “Until your daughter.”
“Why?”
I don’t respond right away because there’s a lot unknown here, and I want to be honest. So, I take another drag and another swill and settle into an explanation I think Sterling will appreciate.
“For my twelfth birthday, my mom took me to see David Copperfield. It was a show called An Intimate Evening of Grand Illusion. I was blown away, like everyone in the audience.”
“I’ve seen him perform as well. He’s wonderful.” Intrigue escorts that, so I’m on the right track.
“It was the most incredible night.” My mind briefly lingers on how special it was because with five siblings, a night alone with my mom was rare, but I brush that away.
“It stuck with me, and I realized that the most fascinating things in life were due to what you didn’t see.
We’re mesmerized by illusions, but the real craft is offstage. ”
“So, you’re fascinated by my daughter’s skills?”
“Yes, but no.” I chuckle, snuff out my cigarette, and wet my mouth with a little more Pappy Van Winkle.
“I don’t know what’s happening with Sylvie, partly because she’s slippery.
I’ve spent more time chasing her than being with her.
I won’t promise you things or say what you want to hear to garner your approval.
Or to win her over through you. You already know this is new for me.
I need to get to know her. Better. And she needs to want that.
I think she will in time … or she already does, but it’s buried under a steel resolve. ”