All He Takes, page 10
“When though?” Codex asked.
“Not sure. Let’s head back out to the van and get a look around.”
Nightstar arranged the last of the dahlias, stepping back to survey their work. A masterpiece of deception, each bloom placed with precise intent. But as much as he wanted to feel satisfied, the absence of Jasmine and Gollum gnawed at him. It was a deviation from the plan, and deviations were how you got caught. Plus, he didn’t trust them. If they had been caught, what if they ratted them out?
You can’t think like that, he thought. You have to focus and just mind your own business…go about things as if everything is perfectly fine.
Nightstar straightened, brushing a speck of dirt from his black delivery uniform. He felt exposed in the vastness of New York, a city pulsating with too many heartbeats, too many prying eyes. His home of Essex, with its familiar streets and predictable rhythms, seemed like a distant world while in the midst of a series of heists on American soil.
“Let’s get going,” Lionheart said. “No sense in getting caught just hanging out in here.”
Nightstar’s footsteps echoed softly against the polished marble as he strode through the hallway and back to the enormous foyer. The mansion, a fortress of wealth and excess, was a thief’s paradise, but for Nightstar, it had become something more—a hunting ground. He adjusted the collar of his workman’s uniform, a costume that felt increasingly like a second skin.
After all, if they were taking the sword today, he supposed he’d also need to plan to take a life today as well. And as that thought occurred to him, he understood that it was the only reason he’d been hesitant to hit tonight. He honestly didn’t care when they did the job. He was more concerned about the death he’d dole out. And he hadn’t been expecting to do it so soon after the last one.
But that was fine. Another thing he was beginning to understand about himself was that when it came to murder, he was always ready.
His gaze swept over the grandeur of the place, taking in the ornate carvings on the ceiling, the glint of sunlight on crystal chandeliers—details that served as distractions from the task at hand.
But then, amidst the backdrop of luxury, she appeared. Her laughter floated to him before he even saw her face, and that was all it took.
She stood by the tall windows, sunlight kissing her golden hair into a halo of warmth. She was dressed in a tight-fitting but respectable sun dress. Nightstar couldn’t help but stop and stare, despite the fact that Lionheart and Codex had already made it back out onto the porch.
She was talking animatedly with the owner of the mansion—a woman whose name and face mattered little compared to the younger, gorgeous woman who had captured Nightstar’s attention. He watched, transfixed, as she gestured with delicate hands, her smile reaching her eyes and making him feel both elated and nervous.
She’s the one, he thought.
But more than the knowledge that she would be the body left behind in their wake, he also felt the need to know her. To possess her essence in the only way he knew how—through the finality of death. The George Washington sword, the gala, the escape plan—all of it receded into the background as this woman, this vision of perfection, consumed his thoughts.
“Come on!”
The command was hissed from just in front of him. Codex had turned around to check on him and had seen him frozen just inside the doorway, eyes locked on the woman in the sundress. Embarrassed, Nightstar hurried through the door and out onto the porch. He followed his partners to the delivery truck, each step feeling surreal, as if he were floating toward an inevitable conclusion.
“You need to get that shit under control,” Codex said as they got to the van.
“He’s right,” Lionheart said as he opened up the back doors where a few more clutches of flowers awaited. “Besides, if we decide to get that sword today rather than tonight, I don’t know that you’ll have time for your… extreme measures.”
“Oh, there will be time,” Nightstar said, smiling.
“I swear…if you get us caught, I’ll kill you,” Lionheart said. “I’ll leave your bloody and lifeless body at the scene of one of our jobs.”
In that moment, standing there under the clear blue sky, the world seemed to sharpen around him—colors more vivid, sounds more acute. And there she was, imprinted on his retina, the image of her seared into his consciousness.
He leaned against the cool metal of the truck, allowing himself a moment of indulgence before gathering up another bunch of flowers. The theft, a meticulously planned event that should have been the pinnacle of their achievements, now felt trivial. That stupid sword was nothing compared to the thrill that coursed through him at the thought of claiming the blonde beauty as his next victim.
“Nightstar?” Lionheart’s voice cut through his reverie, questioning, concerned. Mad.
“I’m good.”
But he saw the fire and worry in his leader’s eyes. Maybe they were right. Maybe he needed to get it under control. But as he gathered up the next round of flowers, he was already thinking of the blonde woman in the sundress. He wondered how she’d squirm, what her eyes would look like as the life went flooding out of her.
And with that image in mind, he smiled widely behind the flowers he carried.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Again astounded by how quickly Interpol was getting things done, Vivian found herself scrolling through numerous text threads from Jenna Caldwell’s phone. There wasn’t a lot to read through, and what was there was mostly between her and Belmont. And Jenna had been telling the truth about at least one thing: the relationship didn’t appear to have a romantic element to it. It appeared to be a mutually beneficial physical relationship. And, as Belmont had stated, it had only been going on for a few months.
Still, despite the wealth of information at her fingertips and the incredible speed at which it had been delivered to her, Vivian could not escape the feeling that they were running out of time. Based on the three murders that had all taken place here in New York City, it was becoming apparent that this group was speeding things up.
She liked to think it might be because she and Sterling had caught one of their members (the three murders and thefts had been committed before they got Jenna), creating a new sense of urgency in the group. But that, of course, could be nothing more than simple wishful thinking.
“Anything?” Sterling asked from across the table. Vivian had been so engrossed in her research that she’d nearly forgotten he was there.
“Still digging,” Vivian replied, her eyes scanning the endless list of numbers, searching for patterns, for something that would break the case wide open. It was irritating to have this much information at her fingertips and not be able to find something.
Each tap on the screen was methodical, each swipe fueled by determination. However, she wondered if she was perhaps getting in her own way by trying to think of Jenna and her group (if she was indeed a part of the group they were after) as simply thieves. With the murders included, maybe they had darker ambitions. And if that was the case, perhaps trying to profile them as nothing more than thieves was a mistake. There was also the plain fact that all thieves weren’t cut from the same cloth; they were just as diverse and varied as people from any other profession. And the only thief Vivian had ever truly known well was herself.
Tethered to these thoughts of her past, Vivian was transported momentarily to the myriad places her former career had taken her. Faces and names flickered in her memory like ghosts, each whispering secrets of heists long past. She wasn’t quite sure why her brain was trying to drudge these things up. Was she worried that this brief association with Interpol might somehow mar her future? Were her years of thievery, travel, and adventure now behind her?
Ah, we haven’t really analyzed that angle to this, now have we? she chided herself.
Her brain clung to the memories, as if hugging them tight out of fear of never seeing them again. It drifted to the dusty heat of Egypt, where ancient secrets and treasures lay buried beneath the sands. There, she had worked alongside Ezra Powell, a man whose brilliance was only eclipsed by his insatiable greed. Initially an esteemed anthropology professor, he had fallen from academic grace, drawn to the pull of grander adventures that had eventually gotten him involved in several heists. Vivian could still picture him, his hands deftly navigating the relics of lost civilizations, eyes alight with a mix of scholarly fervor and criminal intent. She remembered standing in the golden hues just miles away from the Great Pyramids, watching as Powell orchestrated their final, fateful heist before the authorities closed in.
The sharp sting of betrayal lingered; it was she who tipped off the authorities, leading to his arrest. A necessary evil, she had convinced herself. But there was no denying the rush, the dance on the razor’s edge between law and larceny. Well…that and the massive payday she’d received when she’d been the one to return Powell’s stolen relics to their very wealthy owner.
“Get it together already,” she scolded herself.
“What’s that?” Sterling said.
“Nothing. Just talking to myself.”
“Nothing wrong with that. I do it all the time. It sometimes helps me to sort things out…almost like I’m bouncing ideas off of an imaginary friend.”
Vivian chuckled and shook her head. “Yeah…that’s not what I’m doing.”
Their brief back-and-forth snapped her back to reality. The room seemed to close in further, the silence oppressive. She leaned back in the chair, stretching her neck, trying to shake off the cobwebs of history and focus on the urgency of the present. There had to be more, a clue they’d all missed.
“So, let’s say Belmont and Jenna are indeed members of the group,” Vivian said. “That means we have two of them…so the group would be smaller.”
“Yeah…if they’re both members,” Sterling said. “But we haven’t seen anything in the texts to really support that.”
“Humor me. If there’s a group out there stealing priceless items and killing people—young women exclusively from the look of it—then how would that alter the way the group works?”
Sterling considered it for a moment before shrugging. “Depends on who’s pulling the strings. In my experience, groups like this are hardly ever working for themselves. Someone hired them. I know I said the opposite the other day because of the murders. But now I don’t know. And if they feel they have no choice but to finish the job, I feel like they’d probably crank up the speed…hurry things along. But there’s also a chance that they’d abandon ship. And if that’s the case, it’s going to be much harder to find them.”
Vivian paced the length of the records room, each step a silent drumbeat in time with her racing thoughts. Two members of the group were behind bars—Belmont and Caldwell—and yet the puzzle pieces refused to fall into place. How many accomplices were still out there? How many more members to this group? Because while Sterling seemed reluctant to come out and say Jenna and Belmont were part of the group, Vivian felt certain they were. She wasn’t sure why…maybe some sort of vibe they were putting off, some sort of thief radar she’d acquired over time.
A heist was one thing: the meticulous planning, the flawless execution. But murder? That tainted the game, escalated the stakes. It would take more than common thugs to pull off such operations—and it made her wonder just what sort of psycho was paying them.
“The insignia…” she said thoughtfully. “Do you think it’s something their employer, if they do have one, may have asked them to do? Sort of like claiming the scene as their own…as their work?”
“No idea. It sort of throws a monkey wrench in everything. At the start of the case overseas, we had even speculated that it means nothing…that the insignia was just included to throw us off.”
“You mean like giving you a false trail to waste your time and resources?”
“Exactly.”
She let out a slow breath, trying to center herself, and pivoted toward the wall-sized map of New York City plastered across the room. Her eyes traced the spiderweb of streets, so tight and interweaving that they nearly started to blur together.
“Can I guess what you’re thinking?” Sterling asked.
“You can try, sure.”
“You’re wondering how plausible it is to get a list of stores and collectors who might be next.”
“Pretty close. How plausible is it?”
“Not very.”
“What if we really narrow it down?”
“To what?” Sterling asked.
“I don’t know. The things they’re stealing…it’s all so random. I mean…that samurai sword is something of a curve ball.”
“You ever go on a job for something like that?”
“Yes, actually,” she said, having absolutely no shame about her past. “A guillotine blade from England.”
“Why did the buyer want it?”
“He was obsessed with the history of beheadings. And if we want to play that same sort of game here with this group…that samurai sword might indicate that the group is interested in feudal Japan. Or maybe just swords in general.”
“That would shrink down the list.” He nodded. “That could work, actually. Sure, it could turn out to be a huge waste of time, but it’s worth checking into, I suppose.”
Vivian nearly laughed at the irony of it. She’d made a very good living off of stealing valuable artifacts and now here she was, working to make sure they remained safe.
Before she had time to comment on this, Sterling’s phone rang. It had been sitting on the table the entire time; when it rang and vibrated on the table, they both jumped a bit. Grinning at his own nerves, Sterling answered the call. As for Vivian, her heart skipped a beat as she dared to hope the call might be from the FBI or NYPD with some new break on the case—a break that would lead them to making another arrest that might bring this nightmare to an end.
“This is Sterling,” he answered.
Vivian could just barely make out the voice on the other end. A man for sure, but she couldn’t quite make out the words. Sterling nodded a few times and ended the call with a simple: “Understood. We’re on our way.”
He ended the call and took a single heartbeat to process what he’d heard. He then looked Vivian in the eyes, his focus all business and anger.
“What is it?” Vivian asked.
“Another body. And the damned insignia.”
As they both got to their feet, Vivian said, “I guess that answers our question.”
“Which question?”
“About how they’d respond if their group lost a few members,” Vivian said. “Seems like they’re ramping things up…that they want to finish what they started and get the hell out of New York before we can catch them.”
This comment resulted in a shared, uneasy glance between them, and then they were both rushing out of the room, back toward the parking garage and what was starting to feel like an endless chase.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Any word on what was taken?” Vivian asked as they got into the sedan once again.
“List is coming through,” Sterling responded, pulling out his phone and bringing up a map of the city. “But at this point, I don’t even think it matters. They’re moving too fast. They’re getting even more unpredictable.”
“This might be a good thing, though. Yeah, they’re killers…but they’re thieves, too. And for thieves, working quickly is essentially a death sentence. They’re sure to screw up somewhere.”
“Then let’s haul ass to the scene and see what they left for us,” Sterling said, his eyes blazing as he pulled out of the bureau parking garage and into the street.
“And where is the scene?”
“A large mansion about twenty minutes away from here. From what I was told, the owner was preparing for a fundraiser this afternoon when the body was discovered.”
Vivian felt a jolt of excitement as Sterling navigated the Manhattan streets. She had many more questions on her tongue, but she left them unspoken during the drive. Another body…more things likely stolen. She tried to imagine what might happen if somehow, all of a sudden, they discovered that the thieves had left the country—that they’d gone back to Europe. She supposed Sterling would carry on as usual and chase these monsters just as he’d been doing all along.
But what about her? Would she be expected to sit idly by while Sterling played out the remainder of this case by himself? She found herself oddly upset at the thought and wondered what it might mean.
The imagined scenario played itself out in her head in a few different ways and before she was aware of it, Sterling was pulling into a gated driveway. A guard of some kind stopped them at the gate, but as soon as Sterling flashed his Interpol ID, he was waved through. There were two cop cars strewn in among several other vehicles. A few people were milling about on the large front porch, likely having been ushered out of the house when the cops had arrived. Vivian assumed these were people helping the owner put the event together.
Vivian and Sterling stepped out of the car. Vivian’s eyes scanned the scene—police tape fluttered in the breeze, uniformed officers huddled in discussion, and a few seemingly random individuals stood in clusters, their expressions a mix of shock and concern.
“I wonder if they’re considering going ahead with the gala.” Sterling’s voice sliced through her observations.
“I can’t imagine they are, but who knows,” Vivian replied, her gaze fixed on the stately mansion that loomed over them, its windows dark and uninviting.
“Doubtful the bureau will allow it,” Sterling said. “No matter where the body was found, the entire house has to be viewed as a crime scene.”
They made their way up the porch stairs, where two cops gave them challenging looks. But again, Sterling showed his ID, and they were ushered through without question or comment. As Vivian followed him inside, she caught portions of whispered conversations along the front steps and the porch—debates were underway among the event organizers, their gestures animated, weighing the gravity of tragedy against the importance of the arts center fundraiser.
