All He Takes, page 3
She hailed a cab and slid into the backseat. The familiar scent of worn upholstery and faint exhaust fumes wafted in. Vivian extracted the burner phone Garnett had given her. The director had been clear: this device was her tether to Interpol, to her chance at redemption—or so they’d have her believe. She found Sterling’s number—one of the three already programmed in—and pressed Call with a sigh.
This is sure to be an awkward call, she thought.
The phone rang just a single time before it was answered.
“Sterling,” came the terse greeting, clipped and precise. British, without a doubt. His voice carried the weight of authority, the kind that had never sat well with Vivian.
“Michael Sterling? It’s Vivian Fox. I’m your… partner,” she said, the word leaving a sour taste. “Or at least that’s what Director Garnett says.”
“Ah, the illustrious art thief turned amateur detective,” Sterling remarked dryly. “How delightful. You’re in the city?”
“Yeah. Just grabbed a cab from the airport and now I need to tell the driver where to go.”
“Come to 49 West 27th Street. And don’t dawdle; we’ve already lost too much time.”
She wanted to retort, to maybe make a jab about how he could at least say please or something. But he’d already ended the call. She gave the address to the driver and he instantly pulled out into the endless stream of airport traffic.
Sterling had seemed annoyed that she was here—that he’d been saddled with her. She understood it because it was an annoyance that mirrored her own. She’d become used to working alone because her success hinged on silence and solitude. But now, ensnared by Garnett’s ultimatum, solitude was out the window.
As the cityscape blurred past, Vivian’s gaze flitted across the steel and glass canyons of New York, a city brimming with both splendor and sin. The sight of the city before she’d properly entered its mazes and streets seemed to whisper to her, to maybe even greet her back. She did have memories here, mostly good ones. Somewhere in the chaos of it all, there was a gallery where she’d lifted a Degas with a sleight of hand; elsewhere, a penthouse stripped of its pearls under the cover of night.
She’d sampled the city better than most, from its seedier crime-filled areas to the opulent banquets she’d infiltrated with nothing but charm and a chameleon’s grace. Two months in Manhattan had given her a lover’s knowledge of its twists and turns, yet even as affection swelled within her chest, the idea of staying anywhere made her uneasy. In her profession, it was always smarter to stay on the move. Eight weeks in New York City had been beaten out only by a three-month stint in Paris—her only two long-term stays in any place on the planet.
As the taxi slowed, reality snapped back with the abruptness of a pulled shade. The address Sterling had provided materialized before her—a building as unassuming as it was unexpected. It wasn’t a museum or gallery like she’d been expecting, but an old brownstone with aspirations of becoming something new. She paid her fare with the card reader built into the back of the car, the simple exchange grounding her.
As she stepped out onto the sidewalk, the brownstone loomed ahead, its facade etched with the wear of years. She could already tell it was vacant; looking into those dark, featureless windows reminded her far too much of the dead stare in Sarah Johnson’s eyes in Garnett’s crime scene photos. She pushed open the door, dust particles dancing in the shafts of light coming through the windows, playing on the bare bones of a place caught between what it had been and what it would become.
The silence was absolute, a vacuum that seemed to swallow the sounds of the city whole. She moved forward cautiously, her sneakers just as quiet here as they had been the previous night in Charlottesville. She walked like this everywhere—quiet and stealthy—a habit she’d never been able to break.
Vivian’s gaze tracked the length of the room, her breath catching slightly as the musty air clung to the back of her throat. The dim light cast shadows on the bare walls, but there, at the far end, she spotted a man crouched down and looking at the floor. He was quickly scribbling something into a pocket-sized notebook.
“Michael Sterling?” she asked.
Her voice startled him, nearly making him drop the notebook. She hadn’t meant to spook him, but it was good to know that she could so easily sneak up on him. She stored that little nugget away for future use.
Sterling straightened, turning to face her with an eyebrow raised—a silent question hanging there. “You must be Vivian Fox,” he said, his British accent crisp and oddly out of place in the derelict New York brownstone.
“That’s me,” she said. She extended her hand, which he shook with a firm grip that spoke of military discipline. As they released, Vivian’s eyes drifted past him to the center of the room, and her pulse quickened.
The familiarity was jarring—the scene from Sarah Johnson’s files materialized before her. This was the room where the woman’s life had been snuffed out.
“Seems quite ordinary, doesn’t it?” Sterling remarked, following her gaze. “For a place where such a brutal murder unfolded.”
“Ordinary never means safe,” Vivian replied, the words edged with her own experience. It was a bit of information she’d picked up from her own jobs.
She drew the case file from her leather bag, peeling it open with careful fingers. The glossy photos within were a stark contrast to the grainy reality around her. She compared each image to the room’s corners, the walls, the way the light fell languidly through the cracks in the boarded windows.
But it was the floor that demanded her attention now. There, amid the dust and debris, were marks—small but telling. They dotted the wood where the killer’s knife had pierced not just flesh, but through Sarah’s entire body. Each indentation was a silent testament to the violence that had been dealt out in this building. And around the marks, though it had been cleaned recently, the wood was clearly stained a bit darker by the sheer amount of blood that had been spilled here recently.
Vivian crouched beside the marks in the floor, studying them but not quite sure why. The brutality of it was clear to see, like a physical presence in the room that made her skin crawl.
“That’s where her body was found,” Sterling said. He was tucking his little notebook into the inner pocket of his black jacket with white letters on the back reading INTERPOL.
“The report said she was stabbed eight times and hit with something solid. Maybe a bar or rod of some kind.”
“Yes,” Sterling said. “Both arms broken, a fracture to the skull, and all those stab wounds.”
“Was it this brutal in the cases overseas as well?”
“Yes. Worse in some cases. There was one scene where hammers and nails were used.”
“Jesus. And Garnett said they seemed to be killed wherever a heist has taken place?”
“No, not always. Often, it was somewhere nearby. We figure it was witnesses…people who were just unfortunate enough to be in the area and maybe saw something.” He frowned and nodded toward the front of the building. “The bar Sarah Johnson had been visiting the night she was killed is just five blocks down the road.”
Vivian’s gaze drifted from the scarred floor to the walls, seeking a narrative in the silent brownstone. She straightened up, eyes narrowing as she turned to Sterling. “Why here? What’s the connection with this building?” The air between them was thick with the must of disuse and a tinge of something darker.
Sterling paused, looking at her as if he was surprised she wasn’t already privy to this information. “It used to be a jewelry store,” he said. “Real estate records claim it went out of business about eight months ago and then it was being rented out by a Kevin Bateman. Bateman was arrested two weeks ago for aggravated assault and attempted murder of a business associate.”
“And what was Bateman doing with this place?”
“Using it as a cache of sorts—money, jewels, drugs. A den for illicit treasures. Local FBI agents found heroin, cocaine, and all manner of drugs. But I’m betting they missed some of the nicer things…jewels, perhaps.”
“How do you know for sure?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he led her toward the back door, its paint peeling like old scabs. There, nestled in the frame, was a small emblem. Black, stark against the wood grain. It looked almost like it had been spray painted there.
She leaned in closer, noting the emblem’s sharp edges, an insignia that seemed too deliberate, too bold. “What is this?” she asked.
Sterling’s voice had a bitter edge. “Their calling card. It’s been found at every scene across Europe.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his accent seemed to carry the weight of grim certainty. “And at the first murder here in New York, three days ago.”
That emblem—a black stamp of ownership, or perhaps a challenge. Sick men taking credit for the terrible acts they’d done.
“That’s bold,” she murmured, stepping back. “Leaving a signature like that. They’re not afraid of being caught.”
“They’re very confident. Anyway, based on the recent history of this place, the dead woman, and that insignia…yeah, I’m assuming they were here to steal jewels they knew were here. I assume they had ties with Kevin Bateman but he, of course, isn’t speaking. Which is fine…the way these men work, I doubt Bateman even knows what they stole.”
“You…you said the insignia was also at the site of the first victim here in New York,” Vivian said. “You mean Sarah wasn’t the first?”
“No. There was another. I take it Director Garnett didn’t tell you.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Odd.”
The revelation hit Vivian with the force of a physical blow. Another victim, another life snuffed out under the shadow of this black emblem. More than that, though, was the fact that Garnett had not given her the entire picture. And why would that be?
Maybe she’s trying to see how tough I am…maybe she’s testing my resolve.
Maybe. And honestly, it was smart. Because now, thinking there had only been one murder on this side of the pond, here she was with this Interpol agent, standing in the middle of a murder scene.
“Can we go there? To the crime scene?” The words tumbled out of her before she could consider them, driven by a newfound need to solve the puzzle. She hated to admit it, but the inclusion of this emblem into the case had suddenly made it much more interesting.
“We can, but you need to be prepared. This whole thing…this case. It’s not pretty, and it’s not like anything you’ve encountered in your… previous line of work.”
Vivian’s jaw set, firm with resolve. She might have been a thief, but she wasn’t devoid of humanity. The idea that these killers were walking the same streets, breathing the same air—it stirred something visceral in her, a craving for justice that surprised her with its intensity. And it also made her think of another part of her life, a thread of her history that she had tried so hard to ignore.
“Good,” she said, her voice steady despite the chaos brewing inside her. “Let’s go then. I want to see it, all of it. If I’m going to help you catch these bastards, I need to understand what they’re capable of.”
Sterling’s lips twitched in what might have been approval. He led the way out of the desolate brownstone, his strides measured and purposeful. Vivian followed, each step taking her closer to a new, strange part of her life that she’d never seen coming.
CHAPTER FOUR
The cityscape blurred past as Michael Sterling navigated his car through the dense New York traffic. Vivian didn’t think it was a rental, so she assumed it was a sedan borrowed from the CIA or FBI. Honestly, she wasn’t one hundred percent certain how Interpol worked when they were visiting America.
“So…want to tell me about Quantico?” Sterling asked.
Vivian was momentarily shocked. She’d not expected Sterling to know about her stint in DC when, before her time as a thief, she’d nearly finished her training to become a federal agent.
“Did Garnett send you my file?”
“She did. But only because I raised so much hell when she told me I was getting a partner on this case. She told me this partner would be unique. And looking at your file…I’d say that’s accurate.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
Sterling shrugged. “From training for the FBI to becoming a very elusive art thief…yeah, that’s a compliment, I suppose. So…Quantico?”
Vivian shifted, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. “It was a short chapter,” she replied, eyes locked on the passing scenery, the world outside tinted with the grays and blues of an overcast day. “Federal agent training wasn’t quite my style.”
“Too difficult?” he asked. She couldn’t tell if he was being an asshole or just trying to be funny.
“Too many rules. Too much rigidity.” She turned to study Sterling’s profile. There was curiosity there, maybe even a bit of deep interest. “I’m accustomed to… more creative freedom.”
Sterling’s lips twitched, almost a smile. It was hard to tell if he found the irony amusing or if he was simply amused by her. “Creative freedom,” he echoed. “Is that what we’re calling international art theft these days?”
“Semantics,” Vivian countered smoothly, her voice tinged with humor. “But yes, you could say I’ve been involved in some impressive heists. Museums, private collections—the challenge is exhilarating.”
“Exhilaration at the expense of the law.” Sterling’s eyes flicked to her before returning to the road.
“Interpol seems to think that ‘exhilaration’ might just help catch a killer,” Vivian pointed out, her gaze drifting back to the window.
“Perhaps,” Sterling conceded, braking as the traffic ahead came to a standstill. “Yet here you are, working with me instead of serving time. Makes one wonder what changed for the notorious Vivian Fox.”
“Nothing changed. I just didn’t want to go to prison.” She was starting to get pissed off at the way he was questioning her.
“And if you and I crack this and nab these bastards, what then? You think Interpol will just turn a blind eye the next time you go on one of your heists?”
She rolled her eyes and leveled her gaze at him. “Can we just focus on getting to the crime scene?”
Sterling smiled. There was something a bit pretentious about it, as if he thought he’d won this round of what Vivian was already starting to feel was a chess match.
The remainder of the ride was made in silence, and after another eight minutes, Sterling pulled the car to the curb on the opposite side of a string of businesses: a deli, a small antiques shop, and a comics and novelty store. But it was the small park to Vivian’s right that had Sterling’s interest.
“There,” he said. “That’s where Emily Turner’s body was found. I’ve got the case files if you want to see them.”
She almost asked to see them but then decided against it. She’d seen quite enough of the grotesque in the photos from Sarah Johnson’s files. “Maybe later,” she said.
Sterling got out of the car, and Vivian followed. He walked a few yards up the street and then turned right into the park along a wide, nicely graveled walkway. Trees stood like silent sentinels, guarding the secrets of the grove within. Further off inside the park, Vivian could hear children laughing and playing—a slightly eerie sound, given why she and Sterling were there.
As she followed Sterling to a small grove of trees in the right-hand corner of the park, Vivian felt a shiver run down her spine. She absolutely hated that she was so creeped out by the moment, by what they were doing.
As they neared the grove, she wished she had read the files. At least then, she’d have some idea of the importance of the scene they were about to view.
“Want to give me the bare bones details on the scene when the body was found?” Vivian asked.
“Emily Turner, age twenty-nine. A freelance photographer out for an early morning run. In my not-so-humble opinion, going out for a run in a park in New York City before the sun comes up isn’t the smartest thing…but I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. She was discovered in this grove of trees by a man walking his dog. Her throat had been cut, and both knees had been pulverized. Both eyes were black, and her lips were both busted open. Her right hand was broken. A couple of press-on nails were missing…we think and hope it means she at least put up a fight.”
Vivian was relieved to find that he was done, not wanting to hear any other details. Through it all, they’d come to the edge of the grove of trees.
“So…you’re blaming it on her?” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“You said it wasn’t the smartest idea to go for a run at that time of day.”
“I did. But I’m not—”
“So it’s her fault, instead of the sicko who killed her?”
“I didn’t say that, Fox.” And then, as if to quickly change the subject, he pointed into the trees and said: “Right there. You can see where the body was…the depression in the pine needles. See it?”
Vivian did see it. “These women…are they also being sexually assaulted?”
“Not according to the coroner. It’s murder, plain and simple.”
“Am I okay to step in there?” she asked.
“Yeah. Police and the FBI are done with the scene. Help yourself. But I don’t know that you’ll find anything.”
She didn’t expect much, either. But she figured that if she was here, trying to help, she should give it the old college try. This was, after all, the career path she’d initially been interested in.
They stepped onto the ground at the edge of the grove. The grass was tall but mostly dead and wild. Fallen leaves, the occasional stick, and a good deal of pedestrian litter lay on the ground. Vivian scanned the area with a thief’s eye. She evaluated shadows, escape routes, lines of sight. Where would she run if she suddenly needed to? Where would she hide?
