Con Man: Complete Series Box Set: A Bad Boy Romance (2 page)

A
horn blared
in my ear as I leisurely strolled the crosswalk as if their obnoxious honking would somehow motivate me to pick up my pace when I had the right of way. I looked over my shoulder at the mini-van that was currently trying to turn right while I was ever-so inconveniently in the way. Narrowing my eyes, I could see it was a harried-looking woman and what was probably the flailing arm of a child in her backseat.

Either that or the world’s smallest leviathan.

Figuring she was probably over-worked, over-tired, and unappreciated, I sent her my most charming smile and a flirtatious wink. Nothing like a little bit of flirting to make someone's day better. Sure enough, the honking stopped, and I continued my crossing in peace.

There were perks to being attractive. One would think that standing out in a crowd would be a hindrance to my career of choice since criminals shouldn't want to be remembered, but the truth was, most people simply didn't want to believe that someone who looked like me could be a con man. Except my bronze hair, cerulean blue eyes, and handsome features made me perfect for grifting. I was charming, not arrogant, and always seemed to be looking out for others' interests, even when I was really looking out for my own.

I reached the grandiose doors of my current employer, the Museum of Art and History. It was a lovely place, all high ceilings, educational classes and public exhibits. It also was one of the most profitable art institutions in the entire city, which made them a perfect mark. Places like this thought they were invincible, and I was just the person to prove them wrong.

“Good morning!” the receptionist called from her desk. Her smile was bright, hopeful.

“Morning, Helena,” I answered with a sweet smile of my own.

I almost felt bad, pretending to care about her, but it was part of the job. I needed her to not look too closely at what I was doing, and the best way to do that was to make her look at me for other reasons. I'd learned years ago not to get attached to anyone, especially not to marks.

I'd told her my name was Jack Wright, which was the false identity I'd used to apply for the position of art restorer. I'd used the name Bron Du Murier when I'd first started in this life, but I'd quickly learned that aliases were necessary. Now, that name was only used among like-minded associates. It wasn't the name I was born with, but it was as close to a real name as I had anymore.

For a moment, I wondered what my parents would think of me, doing what I did. I was just fourteen when they'd been killed, but sometimes I felt like I didn't really remember them, like I remembered only the idea of them.

My life was divided into two parts. Before and After. Before, I'd been Broderick Murray, orphaned when my parents had surprised a pair of thieves who'd decided that shooting was a better idea than running. I'd been staying with a friend when it happened. After that, I'd gone into the system for a year. Then came After.

I'd run away, and after three months on the street, I'd met Uaine Leconte, though I doubted that was his real name. He's the one who changed my last name to Du Murier, saying that it was a better fit for the life he wanted to introduce me to.

I stayed with Uaine for years, learning from him. Those early days had been something else. Learning the tricks of the trade, feeling like some sort of modern-day Oliver Twist.

I reached my lab, ending my nostalgic daydreaming. I had a job to do, and after months of careful planning and several weeks of masquerading as Jack Wright, I was ready to finish it.

I pressed my ID to the scanner and the doors slid open. I stepped forward and shot the security guard a bright smile. “Morning, Gabriel.”

“Morning,” the guard murmured glumly.

I set my travel portfolio on the table for him to examine, then handed him my extra cup of coffee.

“That for me?” He eyed the cup.

“I can’t think of anyone else who needs a wake-me-up as badly as you do.”

“Good point.” He laughed and grabbed the drink, taking a long swallow. “That's good. How'd you know?”

“How'd I know what?” I asked innocently, sliding my portfolio off the desk now that he was occupied with the coffee.

“How I like my coffee?”

“Must be artist’s intuition,” I said with a cheery smile. “See you at lunch.”

“Thanks again,” he said, taking another drink.

I proceeded to my station, then pulled out the piece I was supposed to work on today. I went about getting all my tools: my microscope, digital mapping device, stippling brushes, tinted varnish. The whole gang. I was just settling down to work on a light bleached section when Gabriel rushed out of the room, a look of near-panic on his face.

That was probably because of the fast-acting laxatives I'd put in his coffee.

Quickly, I went to my real work. Opening the hidden compartment in my portfolio, I slid three large paintings out. Well, they were forgeries more than paintings, but it wasn’t like the public could tell the difference. I'd never understood what was so wrong with taking fine art from people who couldn't appreciate it, and leaving them with something they assumed was just as good. The real crime was not understanding its true value.

Glancing over my shoulder to make sure Gabriel hadn’t miraculously returned to perfect intestinal health, I headed out of the back of the room and into the art vault.

Now came the tricky part.

The keypad could only be unlocked with a specific code, a code only a few choice people knew. Usually, the caretaker would assign us a specific piece to work on depending on our area of expertise, then fetch it from the vault herself, lock it in one of the environmentally controlled cases at our station, and give only the artist working on it the combination to open that particular case. It was the perfect combination of high tech and low tech to make a heist like the one I was attempting impossible.

Granted, they had forgotten to take a code scrambler into account, which was what made it possible for someone like me.

I ripped the basing off the number pad beside the door, exposing the wiring below. It was easy enough for my long, practiced fingers to follow them to their ports and yank out the right ones. Most people thought criminals did what they did because it was easy or because the criminal was unintelligent. That might've been the case for some, but it definitely wasn't for me. I loved the challenge, and while I didn't have much in the way of formal education, my knowledge base was vast and thorough.

Grinning, I pulled a small square device from my pocket. Clicking open the side compartment, several wires and plug ins tumbled out. I hooked them in place of some of the things I'd just pulled out, pressed a few buttons, and let that wonderful piece of technology do its job.

Lights flashed along the exposed number pad as I watched patiently. Usually, this was about the time a rookie would start to sweat, but I waited patiently. Either this would work or it wouldn’t, it was all dependent on planning.

And my plans always worked.

Finally, the number pad let out an agreeable little hum, and there was a hiss of air as the vault unlocked. I breathed a sigh of relief and walked right in. I didn't even want to think of how embarrassing it would be if I failed her.

Everywhere around me were carefully sealed paintings, urns, busts, and ancient weapons. Each section had its own light conditions, as well as strictly maintained temperatures and air pressure. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, and I took a moment to appreciate it, although I wasn’t exactly here for the sightseeing.

Then I strolled over to the paintings and began looking for the numbers I needed. I would've liked to take it all, but right now, I only had the ability to take a few things. I spotted them in less than ten seconds and pulled them from the thin urethane cases they were being housed in. From there, it was a simple matter of sliding the real paintings out as carefully as possible, then substituting my forgeries in their place. These particular paintings weren’t scheduled for display or restoration until the spring, so I would be long gone before anyone even knew they were missing.

I walked out of the vault with my prizes in hand, crossing over to my portfolio. From there it was easy enough to place the real works into the hidden compartment. I looked around, mentally saying goodbye to my most recent playground, then waltzed right out the front door.

This was the point where most people made their biggest mistake. They’d plan and strategize for months, but the moment they had their prize in their hands, they ran. Running drew attention, and attention was the last thing any con wanted.

I'd been at this long enough, however, that it was easy for me to simply walk away from the building. With slow, casual steps, I headed down the sidewalk. I walked a few blocks, then cut over to a pale silver car that was waiting for me.

“That was fast,” the driver said, her Irish accent giving the statement an adorable lilt. With her dark hair and sparkling green eyes, she was definitely one of my more attractive clients.

“What can I say?” I flashed her one of my charming smiles. “I’m good at my job.”

I handed her the portfolio, and she took a quick look at the contents. Of course, it wasn’t enough time to ascertain whether the paintings I stole were originals, and I wasn’t pulling one over on her, but I'd worked for this particular client before, and she knew that I was an honorable thief.

“The funds will be wired into your account within the hour. At what destination shall I drop you off?”

I let out a scoff and leaned back, my six and a half feet frame filling most of the back seat. “Please, as if you don’t know where I’m staying and what I had for breakfast this morning.”

“Just trying to be polite,” she said with a smile, turning on her blinker and merging into traffic.

I smiled as I looked out at the city, taking in everything from the buildings that kissed the sky, down to the street vendors hawking their faux wears. It was a dangerous but wonderful playground, and I was certainly ready for more.

After all, all work and no play made Bron a very dull boy.

I
leafed
through the stack of papers in front of me, skimming over the different reports.

“Um, Alverez?”

“Um what, rookie?”

“Is this really a report from the day after I finished cleaning your desk the last time?”

She squinted at the file in my hand from where she was sitting at her own desk. “How am I supposed to know? What’s the date?”

“The day after I finished cleaning your desk the last time.”

“Well then, there’s your answer.” Her phone rang shrilly before I could retort with something pithy. “Agent Alverez.” Her eyebrows furrowed, something she only did when she was trying to figure something out. “What happen to the whole confined to desk duty thing?” Her eyes narrowed while she listened. “No, I’m not arguing, I just want to make sure we’re clear.” She stood up. “Alright, text me the address and we’ll head right out.” She promptly hung up and looked at me, eyes bright with excitement. “Get your shit together. We’re going out in the field.”

“Yeah, I gathered as much. What’s going on?”

“You walk, I’ll talk. Let’s go.”

I complied, grabbing my jacket and gun, throwing it on as we sped through the office. For having such short legs, my partner certainly managed to cover a lot of space.

“So here’s the deal,” she said, ever the efficient agent. “An art museum's been robbed, and several important pieces are gone from their collection. We just got the call.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Barely. I'd thought we'd been called in on something interesting. “A museum? How thrilling. Just let me grab my bulletproof vest for the exciting firefights we’ll no doubt be plunged into.”

Benita shot me one of her signature looks. “Be careful with that sharp wit of yours, you could cut someone.” We reached the parking lot, and I saw her falter as she tried to remember where she’d left her car.

“You’re to the right, section 6H.”

“How did you–” She glared up at me. “Stupid tall people and your natural advantages.”

“Yeah, yeah. You can ask for a shorter partner when we get back.”

“Nah, it’s useful having someone around who can reach the coffee filters they always keep on the top shelf in the break room.”

I laughed as we reached her car. She'd been bragging about her baby since the first time I'd met her. Personally, I wasn't much of a fan of Jeeps, but she loved it. Cursing at the narrow pockets of her dress pants, she pulled out the keys to the car and gestured for me to get in.

Once we buckled in, she sped off like we were heading out to catch a murderer or kidnapper, not to check out some old stuff that had gone missing. Then again, she drove like that everywhere. While I hadn’t been in the department long, I had quickly learned to adapt to my mentor's aggressive driving.

“Why have a car if you’re not even going to drive the speed limit!” she shouted at another vehicle as we whizzed down the road. I just sat back and trusted that we would get there in one piece.

Somehow or other, we survived, and Alverez pulled up to the front of the museum far ahead of the time estimated by her GPS.

“Um, Benita, this is the fire lane.”

She shrugged and raised an eyebrow. “What are they going to do? Arrest me?”

I rolled my eyes and hopped out of the vehicle. I knew better than to argue with her.

The museum was certainly an impressive sight. Four solid floors of sculptures, paintings, and other pieces of fine art. I was all for the arts and their studies, but this wasn't exactly my thing.

Benita was already power walking towards the doors, and I quickly followed after her. There was already a couple of police officers on the scene, as well as a panicked receptionist. A frazzled man in an expensive suit was shifting from foot to foot.

Benita greeted them even as she walked toward them. “Hello. I'm Agent Alverez, and this is my partner, Agent Melendez. I heard we had a robbery here?”

The suited man stepped forward first. Definitely the owner. “Yes, there was.” He extended a hand. “You got here fast.”

“Light traffic,” Alverez answered flatly, almost startling a laugh from me. She shook the man's hand.

“Ah, well, thank you. Shall I take you where the, uh...” his voice dropped to barely a whisper, “
the incident
happened?”

“Yes, that's usually where these investigations start.”

Another choked laugh. After a few months, I should've been used to the dry wit that matched my own, but her deadpan was flawless.

“Of course, of course.” He started walking quickly, looking back at us every few words. “I can't believe this happened to us. You hear about it all the time at other museums, but we never thought...we were infiltrated from the inside! Who does that?”

“Thieves. That's who does that,” I supplied without an ounce of irony. Benita shot me a subtle grin before facing the sweating owner again.

“Well, yes, we know that. But it's just...if my niece hadn't been in town we wouldn't have known for months! It would have been even more disastrous!”

“How does your niece fit into this?”

For the first time since I met him, his chest puffed up, and he looked a bit prideful instead of half panicked and flushed. “She's one of the leading art restoration specialists in the entire United States. She surprised me with a visit, so I wanted to show her some works by her favorite artist we managed to secure last season. She spotted the fakes almost instantly.” He shook his head again. “If she hadn't been here, we wouldn't have known until June. June!”

Finally, we reached what had to be the super-secret art fixer-upper room or something like that. A peaked-looked security guard stood at the door, talking to a cop.

“What happened with the guard?” I asked. “Was he incapacitated?”

The owner fidgeted, looking even more embarrassed. “Um, technically, yes.”

“Technically?” Benita asked.

“He was in the bathroom. He thinks it was food poisoning.”

“Pretty convenient, don't you think?” I asked. Benita glanced at me, and I explained, “This thief knew exactly when food poisoning was going to strike the guard and leave the place open?”

Alverez whistled. “This thief really did think of everything, didn't he?”

“I don't understand.” The owner looked back and forth between the two of us. “What do you mean?”

“I think someone dosed your guard,” I said. “Probably laxatives.”

The owner shook his head. “It had to be food poisoning. That was why Jack left too.”

“Jack?” Benita's voice was even, but there was no mistaking the glint in her eyes.

“The restorer who was working this morning.”

Even as he said the words, I watched understanding dawn on the owner's face.

“You think Jack was part of this?” He shook his head. “No, not possible. He's not that type of man.”

I shrugged. “We'll need contact information for him.”

“Of course,” the owner said stiffly.

“We'll also want a full employee list.”

“This was not an inside job.” The words twisted his mouth. “My employees are carefully screened.”

“We just need to cover all our bases,” Benita said. “Once we eliminate all of them, we'll be one step closer to the truth.”

“You need to be a lot closer than one step,” the owner's voice was shrill. “Whoever this thief was walked off with over two million dollars’ worth of art!”

Two million dollars? “Didn't you say they only took three paintings?”

His chest puffed out again. “They're very rare works that took two years of negotiation with France to get released to us, and now they're gone! We haven't had a theft in fifteen years!”

“Alright, deep breaths there,” Alverez said. “You have security cameras down here?”

“Of course! The tapes are ready and waiting for you in the security office.”

“But if you have cameras, how could no one have known about the robbery while it was happening?” I asked.

Alverez let out a sigh. “With places like these, security in the employee areas is more reactive than proactive. They don't monitor events as they happen but rather look at them later if something went wrong. Almost all live-feed security is directed towards the floors open to guests. Besides, if this guy is as good as I think he is, he probably knew where every camera was and kept his back to them.”

“Why don't you walk us through the crime scene first, and then we'll get your employee list as well as the security footage. One thing at a time.” Benita's voice was soothing, calm.

“Right, of course.”

I followed them, keeping my eyes open and my mouth shut. As far as I could tell, nothing was out of place. Whoever this art thief was, they'd treated everything they weren't trying to steal with respect. That usually indicated someone intelligent, at least mildly informed about the art community, and, if we were right about it being an inside job, they were someone with talent. Someone who was good enough to get through the employee screening process.

Once Benita had seen everything she wanted to see, we went to the security room to access the employee files and pick up the security footage.

Except there weren't any employee files. The entire system had been wiped. Based on how quickly things must've been done, I doubted the thief had hacked the system this morning, which meant he knew enough about computers to plant a program to wipe the files at a designated time, or he'd hacked them from off-site.

Damn, he was good.

“So, professional and an inside job?” I asked Benita as we walked out of the building with the security tapes and a hand-written employee list that would have to do for now.

“Definitely,” she agreed. “And I'm willing to bet it's that Jack guy.”

“I can't believe no one suspected him right off the bat,” I said as I climbed into the passenger seat of the Jeep. “I mean, guy's there one minute, gone the next, and paintings are missing just a few feet from where he'd been sitting. How was he not the first person we heard about?”

Benita kept her eyes on the road as she pulled out in front of a taxi and took off. “Guys who own places like that, who think that their money and name mean something special, they don't ever want to admit they made a mistake. They sure as hell don't even want to consider that they've been conned.” Now she shot me a sideways glance. “Why do you think it's so hard to catch cons like this?”

She had a point.

“What I don't get,” I said, “is why only three paintings. Why didn't he take more? Time maybe?”

Benita shook her head. “I'm guessing they were special request. I doubt this thief took them for himself. Someone hired this Jack guy to infiltrate the museum specifically for these paintings. We find out what makes them so special, we'll know where to start looking for Jack.”

I tapped the video in my lap. “Once we find out what he looks like.”

She nodded. “We'll screenshot a picture from the security cameras, send out an APB, and get this all wrapped up with a bow,” Benita said. “Easy-peasy.”

I didn't say anything. Like a lot of good agents, I relied on my gut as much as I did the evidence, and my gut was saying that this wasn't going to be as simple as Benita thought. Something about this case, I was sure, was going to change everything.