Yesterday's Thief: An Eric Beckman Paranormal Sci-Fi Thriller (19 page)

“Eric, I really think we should take this. What do we know about bringing a device to market? Let them worry—”

“How much?”

“It’s less than the last offer.”

“How much, Craig?”

“Fifteen million.”

What a day. I answered right away. “I’m in. Let’s take it.”

“I really think we should accept. It would be better to take the money and run. You never know what—”

“Craig, I said take it. Set it up. I was wrong to insist we turn it down last time, and I apologize for that.”

“We decided together.”

“Well, kinda. Congratulations. How does it feel to be a multimillionaire?”

“Nothing’s signed yet, so let’s not celebrate until everything goes through.”

“You never stop worrying, do you, Doc?”

Craig gave me the details, and we spent some time patting ourselves on the back.

After I hung up, I pulled a bottle of whiskey out of my bottom drawer. If I wanted, I could close the business and retire to a life of luxury. Not a chance. With my new funds I had a real shot at succeeding where the FBI and the paparazzi were failing.

I invited Peggy in for some celebratory drinks. We went over how we could use the new funds to take my investigation to the next level.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Viviana wore a simple but stylish navy dress with gold hoop earrings and a wide hat. She stepped out of the real estate agent’s Cadillac and looked up at the building at 20 Hollywood Place. Her eyes settled on the communal balcony on the second floor and a smile tugged at her mouth.
Perfect.
She still wasn’t committed to the heist, but two condos in the building were up for sale. What an irresistible opportunity to take a look inside with no risk.

It was the end of November, almost a month and a half since she’d escaped the paparazzi. She’d had her nose surgery on Halloween and had finally been able to remove the bandage. That hadn’t been pleasant, but the result was worth it. Her face had a whole new look.

She had a full set of top-quality forged identity papers, courtesy of the Dark Web. These included a California driver’s license and registration for her Porsche under the name of Victoria Ivanov.

Viviana had spent several days tailing her mark, Ms. Adair. The most important observation: Adair didn’t visit the bank preceding her engagements.
Favorabil!
It meant she didn’t retrieve her jewels from a safe-deposit box—she kept them at home.

Viviana gestured to the building. “And this one has best security of all?” She had made it clear she was concerned about burglars. The two women walked toward the entrance.

“Absolutely.” The agent—You
must
call me Barbara—was in her fifties and overly perfumed, with her hair pulled back into a bun. Artificial diamonds peppered the bird-shaped brooch on her pantsuit. She put her hand on Viviana’s forearm. “You’ll be
very
impressed.”

Barbara pointed to a space above the main entrance. “We have a security camera right there—see it?—plus a motion sensor that will alert the guard at the front desk.”

Viviana looked closely at the camera and turned to evaluate its field of view. “You have guard who does rounds at night? How old is. He?”

Barbara laughed. “Wilfred is experienced. We haven’t had a single burglary while he’s been on duty.”

“Do you have central safe I could put jewelry in?”

“Oh, no, Victoria. You wouldn’t want that. You can have a safe installed right in your own condo. That’s much more convenient, don’t you think?”

They took the elevator up to the top floor. “Now, Victoria, you’ll have to excuse the mess in this first condo. It’s just been vacated and is being completely redecorated. Now, I don’t know about you, but there’s nothing I like better than that new-house smell. Do you know what I mean? I guess it comes from the paint. I love that smell.” The agent jingled through her set of keys.

Coming off the elevator, the two passed the door to Florence Adair’s residence. Viviana glanced at its high-quality locks.
Not good
. Adair had had special locks installed, apparently not satisfied with the ones that came with the condo.

Barbara unlocked the neighboring, vacant condo. The paint smell washed over them. The agent walked her high heels across the drop cloths and slid open the glass door to the balcony. “And look at this view, Victoria.”

Viviana checked out the view and examined the distance from the balcony to the roof. Adair’s balcony was on the other side of the building. “Is very nice here, Barbara.” An image of drinking wine on the balcony appeared in her mind. With Eric Beckman. That was strange.

After exploring all the rooms, the women left the condo, stepping back into the hall. Viviana opened the door to the stairwell. No locks. The stairs continued up toward the roof.

The agent came over to her. “Oh, you’re worried someone could come up through the stairwell. Don’t worry. The door into the stairwell on the ground floor is locked, and remember, we have a guard at the front desk twenty-four seven.”

Barbara rapped on the heavy door with her knuckles. “We can’t lock these doors due to fire safety regulations, but soon we’re installing a new system. The doors will be locked, but if there’s a fire, they’ll automatically unlock. That’s so if there was a fire, heaven forbid, and you went down the stairs but were blocked by smoke, you could get out again. Understand?”

“When install that?”

“I think they start in two weeks.”

Hmm. A time limit. She wasn’t going to do it, but if she did, it would have to be soon.

* * *

A bit before Thanksgiving, a freckle-faced beauty walked into my inner office. I slapped my forehead. Jessica Holiday. My last words to her—I’ll call you. You can trust me on that—echoed in my mind.

“Jessica, I’m sorry.”

“Didn’t you get the order wrong?” She was smiling.

“The order?”

“Right. The guy’s supposed to not call
after
he sleeps with the woman.”

I looked at my hands. “Right, right.” I jerked my head up. “I mean, not right, but …”

She tilted her head and raised one eyebrow. <
I’ll just let him struggle here.
>

“I mean. Well, I’ve … I’m in the middle of an intense case, right now. You totally slipped my mind.”
Oops
. I wanted to bite back those words.

“You’re telling me I’m totally forgettable.” <
Now I feel bad. I shouldn’t have come.
> She sat down in my visitor’s chair, and lurched backward.

“No, not at all. I mean, who could forget the, uh, cow thing …” I cleared my throat.

“Okay, got it. Help me out here. Am I a close second place to the cow’s rectum, or a distant second? This could be a good thing for a girl to know. Or maybe I’m third. Maybe there’s something less memorable than a cow’s rectum, but still vastly more memorable than I am. Let’s see. Maybe bird shit? Or just mud.” She stopped and closed her eyes. <
This sucks. I came here just for fun. Is there something wrong with me? I’m not going to cry.
>

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Jessica. I just—”

She jumped up, shouting now. “Oh, great. What a wonderful endorsement. Jessica Holiday—there’s nothing wrong with her. Maybe I should put an ad in the personals. Single white female likes long walks and has nothing wrong with her. I bet that will get me lots of—”

“Jessica, please. You’re funny and smart and—”

“Spare me. I guess I have a great personality, too.” <
Now I know there’s something wrong with me.
>

“May I take you out to lunch—”

“Gee, let me think about that—no. Look, I didn’t come here to get a new date. I wasn’t even that impressed with you.” <
Now I sound like sour grapes. This is a bad, bad day.
> “I just thought …”

Jessica stood for a few seconds, tears rolling down her cheeks, even dropping to the floor. She turned and ran out, slamming the door behind her.

I stared at the wall. My out-of-balance ceiling fan made accusatory creaking noises. Peggy apparently had the good sense not to come in.

Could I have done any more damage? Hearing her thoughts made it so much worse. And the pile driver I’d applied to her self-esteem was undeserved. She was indeed cute, smart, and funny. Had it not been for Viviana, I’d have fallen for Jessica in a big way.

Could I write her a letter? Get her to see the truth? No. Even if she didn’t burn it, it would only make things worse.

* * *

Dressed head to toe in black, Viviana approached 20 Hollywood Place from the side, confident she was out of the range of the camera and motion sensor. Her heart rate kicked up a notch as the old thrill of being on a job spread through her body. What was that new term she’d heard? Adrenaline junkie?
Da,
that was her. Bungee jumping didn’t satisfy her. No skill involved. Rock climbing used her skill, but the payoff wasn’t big enough. A heist was her only fix.

She cast the rubber-coated grappling hook to the railing of the communal balcony on the second floor. She climbed up easily, her thin gloves gripping the top-quality rope. Within seconds she had bypassed all the security arrangements—locked doors, cameras, and security guards—of the first floor. The security arrangements that made all the residents complacent. Hopefully.

After stowing the rope in her pack, she inserted a special, thin-bladed spatula into the jamb of the balcony door. The latch refused to budge. Would she have to give up so soon? She pulled the blade out and inserted it from below. The latch slipped back and she was in.

After listening for noises, she glided through the hallway and into the stairwell. She padded up toward the roof. This was going too well. Once on the roof, it would be easy to abseil down to Adair’s apartment.

She checked her watch. The night guard would start his next round from the ground floor at one-thirty. Forty-five minutes to go. She’d staked out the building on several nights, and his routine never varied.
Stupid
.

Viviana had seen Ms. Adair leave for the theater. According to the society pages, Adair was expected at an after party given by the play’s director.

Shining her penlight on the lock on the door to the roof, she shook her head. Surprisingly expensive. Someone understood how burglars operated. Putting on her headlamp, she pulled out her lock pick set and went to work.

She inserted the tension tool at the bottom of the keyway and exerted gentle pressure. No lock is machined perfectly, and she closed her eyes, picturing the one pin inside that would prevent the cylinder from turning. Sliding the pick tool in, she moved the individual pins, testing the resistance of each. Click! There. She’d located that first pin. On to the next.

In theory, lock picking is simple. Continue freeing pins until the final one lines up, and the lock will open. In practice, though, it’s an art. Viviana had mastered the art, but this lock wasn’t cooperating. As she’d suspected, it had at least one sophisticated feature: spool, serrated, or even rotating pins. She shouldn’t have wasted her time on it. On to Plan B.

Back down on the eleventh floor, Viviana put her ear against the stairwell door. No sounds. She pushed into the hallway. It had black and white checked tile and a lemon scent.

This floor had three condos. Ms. Adair’s, the unoccupied suite next to it, and a third residence across the hall. She listened at the third door. If anyone was home, they were making no noise, probably sleeping.

She went to work on Adair’s lock, but it was hopeless, too. Much too good. Maybe she could open it in an hour. Who had that much time? She stood up, a twinge shooting up from her knees. She had been born seventy years ago, after all. She chuckled without smiling.

With every minute of delay, the muscles in her neck tightened. A quick stretch, and she kneeled down at the door of the neighboring condo. This was a plain-vanilla lock probably installed by the building owner. No one had paid to have a high-quality replacement put in. It would be easy.

Voices came from the third condo and she whipped her head around. Should she duck back into the stairwell? She heard no shouting, no alarm, just relaxed speech. Would someone come out at this time of night? If so, her clothing would give her away. No way to charm her way out of it.

She turned back to the lock for the neighboring condo. Much simpler than the others—maybe she could get it opened quickly. She put tension on the cylinder and raked the pins. Bingo. The lock opened just as the neighbor undid his dead bolt. She whipped the door open, spun into the condo, and whipped it closed again, easing it into the jamb.

She watched through the door’s peephole viewer and held her breath. A tall man stepped out of the apartment. He closed his door and stopped. Did he notice something? Had he heard her? He walked toward her door. Would he check that it was locked? She turned the dead bolt latch slowly.
Too loud.
It caught. She pressed the door in slightly. There. That got it. She slipped the dead bolt home just as the man reached for the knob.
Phew!