The Chase (7 page)

“Those people have no artistic integrity,” Boyd said, pointing at the house he’d just left.

“They didn’t appreciate your psychologically tortured pancake,” Kate said.

She’d never had a conversation with someone in a pancake suit before. But even in that costume, Boyd somehow managed to maintain his dignity.

“You saw my performance?”

She nodded. “The costumers were watching it on monitors in the wardrobe truck. I peeked while I was waiting for you.”

“Then you know that my portrayal was dead-on. He breaks into homes and asks children to eat him. He’s obviously not a well-adjusted pancake.”

“Look at the bright side, Boyd. Now you’re available for another job. One that pays a lot more than this and doesn’t require you to wear a hat of melting butter.”

“What’s the role?”

“Star of a reality TV show shot on location in Palm Beach, Florida.”

“I’m in.”

“Wait a minute. You don’t know what we’re really going to be doing.” She looked around. There was no one close enough to eavesdrop, but she lowered her voice to a whisper anyway. “We’re stealing back a stolen object from someone and returning it to its rightful owner.”

“A noble cause and a great part. What more does an actor need to know?”

“If we’re caught, we could be killed, or if we’re really lucky, sent to prison for ten years.”

Boyd waved off Kate’s concern. “It’s still better than playing a pancake for philistines.”

• • •

Carter Grove was living in a forty-nine-million-dollar, twenty-three-thousand-square-foot beachfront estate in Palm Beach. The mansion had taken him three years to build and an additional two years to furnish. The house had a massive, domed rotunda in its center and twin two-story limestone-clad wings branching out on either side. It even had gargoyles carved in stone perched in the eaves.

“Carter modeled his place after Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte, Louis XIV’s inspiration for the Palace of Versailles,” Nick said, standing with Kate on the beach in front of the house. “That should tell you something about Carter’s delusions of grandeur.”

“The only thing missing is a moat.”

“Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte was built starting in 1658 by Nicolas Fouquet, Louis XIV’s state treasurer,” Nick said. “In 1661, Fouquet invited his boss, Louis, over for a big housewarming party. The king took one look at the opulent castle and was so jealous, he confiscated it and threw Fouquet in prison for life. Maybe that’s why Carter waited until he left the White House to build this.”

Kate thought the house looked as out of place on the white sand beach as a tuna casserole at the Last Supper. But Nick fit right in with the beach scene. He wore Ray-Bans, a Tommy Bahama silk shirt, khaki shorts, and leather flip-flops. Kate was dressed in an H&M tank top, Gap boyfriend shorts, and Nike running shoes. It was a warm and sunny morning, two days after they’d recruited Joe Morey and Boyd Capwell for the con. They had only six more days until the Chinese arrived in D.C. to get their rooster back.

“I’ve done the research,” Kate said. “Carter has a Gant Supermax Security system, the gold standard in security. Surveillance
cameras watch every square inch of the property, inside and out. Infrared beams crisscross the rooms in constantly changing patterns that, if broken by anything larger than a dust particle, immediately set off the alarms. Even if you can get past all that, they have temperature sensors that can pick up an intruder’s body heat.”

“No problem.”

“A dozen armed BlackRhino operatives patrol the property at all times. Every one of them is a trained killer. They’re pros, with vast resources. They aren’t going to take us at face value or be fooled by smooth talk. They are going to do background checks and verify everything we say.”

“Relax,” Nick said. “My data forger in Hong Kong has built solid fake identities for us in every bank, government, law enforcement, and search engine database that BlackRhino is likely to check. They’ll hold up, at least long enough for us to get the rooster.”

They walked the length of the property to a short boardwalk that led to the cul-de-sac where Kate had parked their rented Escalade.

At the end of the cul-de-sac, and next door to Carter Grove’s estate, was a weedy construction site where work on a spec home had stopped early in the framing stage. An unmarked panel van was parked beside the office trailer that remained on the lot.

If Kate and Nick had walked into the trailer, they would have found Joe Morey inside, setting up computers, flat-screen monitors, and other equipment. But they ignored the trailer and got into the Escalade.

Kate turned to Nick in the passenger seat. “This entire operation falls apart if Carter says no.”

“He won’t say no,” Nick said. “Nobody builds a house like that unless they crave attention. And we’re going to give it to him in a big way.”

• • •

Carter Grove wasn’t a king, but he was a kingmaker. He was on the phone, talking to Muktar Diriye Abdullahi, the brutal dictator of a small African nation. Botan Omar Wehliye, the hotheaded, idealistic rebel leader who was trying to topple the regime, was simultaneously on a different line with Carter. Both men wanted to hire BlackRhino to bolster their forces with mercenaries, military advisers, and cutting-edge weapons.

“You may be fighting for your country’s ethnic heritage and religious values, Muktar, but that means nothing to me,” Carter said. “But when you overthrew the government twenty years ago, you nationalized the gold mines.
That
means something to me. You want us in your fight? It will cost you fifty million now and five percent of your annual mining profits for as long as your regime remains in power. Think about that for a minute, I’ve got another call I need to take.”

Carter put Muktar on hold and switched over to the line with the rebel leader.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Botan. I don’t care about the atrocities your people have suffered or the righteousness of your cause. You don’t have any cash to pay me. But if you overthrow the government, you’re going to control the gold mines. We want an irrevocable fifty-year lease on Frobe Valley. And don’t think you can say yes now and renege on the deal later, because we’ll assassinate your entire family and mutilate the corpses. That’s a promise. What do you say?”

Fifteen minutes later, Carter strolled out of his office onto a balcony overlooking the Atlantic. He was sixty-two years old, round-faced and round-cheeked, with a thin mustache and beard that he maintained to create the illusion of a chin. He was
unmarried but had no shortage of young women willing to party with him.

Veronica Dell, Carter’s thirty-seven-year-old personal assistant, knocked and entered his office. She had a graduate degree in economics from Yale, a black belt in taekwondo, and the sexiest British accent Carter had ever heard, even though he knew it was fake. She’d been born and raised in Phoenix.

“How did the negotiations go?” she asked.

Carter left the balcony and returned to his office. “Perfectly.”

“Which side are we supporting?”

“Both,” he said.

“So we win either way.”

“That’s my idea of good business. Any calls?”

She nodded. “The CEO of AeroSystem. He’s sniffing around to see if you’re interested in buying some drones. Now that the war effort in Afghanistan is winding down, he’s overstocked.”

He liked the way Veronica said “overstocked.” “I didn’t catch that. What did he say he was again?”

“Overstocked.”

Carter smiled. It was like having a younger, sexier Mary Poppins working for him. He wondered if she’d sing “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” if he asked her to.

“Anything else?”

“Marissa Clopp at Emerald Coast Realty called,” Veronica said. Marissa was the Realtor who’d sold Carter the house he’d demolished to build this one. “She’s got two producers in her office from the TV show
The Most Spectacular Homes on Earth
. They’d like to feature your house in an episode.”

Carter knew the show. It was on Home & Style Television. He’d watched it several times and didn’t think that any of the houses
they’d featured so far came close to matching his in splendor, grandeur, or artistic vision.

“What are the names of the producers?”

“Jim Rockford and Lucy Carmichael.”

Carter thought about it. His privacy was important to him. But he also imagined the envy that his friends and enemies in Washington would feel when they saw how he lived. The fact that his house was on a show called
The Most Spectacular Homes on Earth
would say it all.

“Have the New York office check them out. In the meantime, get the president of Home & Style Television on the phone for me.”

The Palm Gardens office complex was a sprawling five-story building that wrapped around a man-made lake in a formerly industrial area of Santa Monica, California. The building was home to several cable TV channels, advertising agencies, and production companies. The most recent tenant was Rififi Studios, which occupied a cramped three-hundred-square-foot space above the entrance to the parking garage and below the headquarters of Home & Style Television.

The phone lines that served HSTV passed through one of Rififi’s walls. A hole had been cut through the wall, and a MacBook was wired into the bundle of phone lines. The MacBook was programmed to intercept any call from a Florida area code and redirect it to the phone in Rififi’s office. Boyd Capwell was by himself in the office playing solitaire when the phone finally rang for the first time.

“Home & Style Television, how may I direct your call?” Capwell said.

“This is Carter Grove’s office calling for Warren Kane.”

It was a woman speaking with the worst British accent Boyd had ever heard. Her dialect coach must have had a terrible speech impediment.

“One moment, please,” Boyd said. “I’ll transfer you to his office.” He put her on hold, then resumed the call with a voice that had dropped an octave. “Warren Kane’s office. Is Mr. Grove ready to speak to Mr. Kane?”

“He is.”

There was a click, and after a good thirty seconds had passed Carter Grove came on the line.

“Hey there, Warren. Glad you were available to talk. Are you familiar with who I am?”

“Of course I am, Mr. Grove. We just sent two field producers out to Palm Beach to knock on your door. We can’t continue calling our show
The Most Spectacular Homes on Earth
if we don’t feature your house.”

“I think you’re right, and that’s why I’m willing to consider letting cameras into my home for the first time. But I have some conditions.”

“Name them.”

“I want full editorial control over the episode and final cut. Not just the editing, but the narration and music as well. Nothing goes on the air that I haven’t approved first. I also want all the unused footage destroyed.”

“You’ve got a deal.”

“Really? I was expecting an argument and an impassioned speech about journalistic integrity, objectivity, and all of that crap.”

Boyd gave a hearty laugh. “We aren’t
60 Minutes
, Mr. Grove. We’re an aspirational network offering viewers a vision of a better life through home ownership and improvement. Or, to put it another way, we broadcast property porn designed to sell paint, hardware, appliances, and furniture. Our goal here is to make your house look even more spectacular than it already is.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” Carter said. “But I’m willing to let your team give it a shot.”

“I’m thrilled to hear that.”

“My people will need to run background checks on every crew member before they set foot in my house.”

“Take their DNA if you want. Give them colonoscopies, too. Do whatever it takes to make you feel comfortable so that we can show off your fabulous taste and magnificent home to millions of people around the world.”

“I think we’re going to get along just fine,” Carter said.

Nick went off to hire a local film crew and Kate returned to her room at the four-star Regal Shores Hotel, a plantation-style beachfront resort. She changed into a bikini and found a chaise by the pool that gave her a nice view of the pristine beach and the two fourth-floor rooms she and Nick had rented in the main tower.

Kate was paging through the latest issue of
People
, but her eyes were on the fourth-floor rooms. A shadow passed behind Nick’s window. Too late for maid service, too early for turndown service. Kate was guessing the room was being searched.

A muscled man in his thirties, wearing striped board shorts and reading an iPad, was lying on a chaise across the pool from her. Above his navel was a telltale star-shaped scar from a bullet wound. He was paying close attention to his iPad, but Kate
didn’t think he was reading, because his lips weren’t moving. She suspected he was watching her on the iPad’s camera.

A drop-dead-gorgeous woman with a Victoria’s Secret body strolled out in a barely-there bikini with a top like pasties on strings. Bullet Belly flicked a glance at her and immediately returned to his iPad. Not normal, Kate thought. Even if he was gay, he’d check her out. BlackRhino operative, she decided. She was pleased they had Carter Grove’s attention. It meant he hadn’t dismissed their offer yet.