A Magnificent Crime (20 page)

“Ethan, I've got a problem,” I said in a low voice, moving quickly toward the elevator.

“I see that,” he said.

As I approached the elevator, Ethan cut in. “No. Not that way, Montgomery. There are no elevator cars approaching the second floor quickly enough. Get to the south staircase. That's your best bet.
Go.
I'll run interference.”

I darted to the entrance of the staircase. The grated floor was completely open, and I could see far below.

Memo to self:

I felt a swell of nausea, and my head spun in a way that threatened to knock me over. I did not need a panic attack right now.

Okay, breathe. Slowly.

Except I needed to move fast. I had to get the hell out of here. At the top of the stairs I glanced back. I saw Ethan attempting to stall Hendrickx by asking him to take his photograph. Hendrickx just glared and pushed past him.

I clamped my jaw and stepped onto the top step. I knew a full-blown panic attack was not far away, but I had to get off the tower.

For one thing, I had the security schematics of the Louvre in my possession. It would be extremely incriminating to be caught with these. It would guarantee my arrest. I could get rid of them . . . but I desperately needed them.

And even if I managed to explain the schematics somehow, Hendrickx would start questioning me about Lafayette. He would run my prints. He would see my real face. After that, it wouldn't be too tricky for him to figure out who I actually was and what I did for a living.

No, getting caught was not an option.

I willed my legs to keep moving down the stairs in spite of my worsening tunnel vision.

I made it several flights down before I heard “Stop that woman!” behind me. Hendrickx was shouting.

Shit.
He would choose the most complicated option. What now? He was hollering for people to grab me.

Fact is, that didn't often work. People never clued in to what was going on fast enough. And bystanders rarely wanted to get involved, anyway. Besides, I was a woman. They would always let me through, especially when a non-uniformed man was chasing me.

A few faces looked like they were considering it, though. These were the people I gave my most pitiful look to, my most scared look. “Please help me,” I said. I let them draw their own conclusions. They let me through.

The scared expression on my face wasn't much of a stretch. I made it down several more flights. I was getting closer to the ground. I could see my way to freedom.

And then a group of guards started thundering their way up. Hendrickx must have had a way of communicating with them. I was trapped from both sides.

“Ethan, where the hell are you?” I hissed into my earpiece. “I'm trapped on the south staircase,” I said.

“I'm coming. I'll be there . . . in about five minutes. . . .”

It was too long to wait. Besides, did he have a plan?
Think, Cat.

I had to count on the guards not knowing exactly who they were looking for. I could see they weren't looking closely at people as they thundered their way up. But what I did notice, peering through the grated steps, was that they stopped a couple of women with black hair. Just like the wig I was wearing.

There was only one thing to do.

I would have to remove my disguise. It was a risky maneuver. If I was caught at this point, it would mean my true appearance would be seen.

On the other hand, if I was caught, my wig and the rest of my disguise would be removed, anyway, so what difference did it make? Still, I felt naked without my disguise.

I whipped off my glasses and wig and stuffed them in my handbag. I figured Hendrickx had given a pretty cursory description to the guards. I slipped out of my coat and wrapped that around my waist.

But I knew that wouldn't be enough. I needed to attach myself to another party; I didn't want to be seen as a solo woman. A quick glance around revealed limited options. And then I saw a little girl trailing several steps behind her mother, gazing away at the view of the city.

The guards thundered up. They were on the flight below me now.

I crouched down to the girl. “Hi, sweetie. Do you like the view?” I asked. She turned and smiled at me. The barrette in her hair was coming loose. “Oh, look! Here, let me help.” I gingerly pulled it out and reclipped it, making my face appear as doting and motherly as possible. Just at that moment the guards stormed past, on their way up the stairs.

I glanced over my shoulder to ensure the guards were well away, gave the girl a flash of a smile, and then continued descending as fast as I could.

Several flights before the bottom, Ethan suddenly appeared on the staircase, coming up.

“Where did you come from?” I hissed.

“I took the east elevator, then ran over here. I had to sneak ahead through that lineup. Okay, here, take my arm.”

He stuffed my coat under his jacket and handed me a pair of sunglasses and a tube of bright red lipstick. He'd come prepared. I casually shook out my hair, knowing that I looked completely different now, and together we slowed right down to the same pace as the tourists.

At that moment Hendrickx and the guards arrived at the landing just above us, charging down. I grabbed Ethan's camera and snapped a photo of him against the backdrop of the Champ de Mars while the search party ripped past us, clearly looking for someone who was fleeing.

Truth be told, it's often the best strategy for escaping a pursuit. To stop fleeing and simply blend in.

Ethan and I became part of the crowd. At the bottom stair, we stepped off the staircase arm in arm, snuggling and gazing into each other's eyes.

The guards' glances at the bottom of the staircase slid off us. We walked away from the tower, forcing ourselves to walk slowly and not run. I hazarded one glance over Ethan's shoulder just before we slipped behind the bushes. I could see Hendrickx having a heated argument with the guards, the whole group of them fanning out and looking with bewilderment and frustration at the hordes surrounding the tower.

We were away. I'd made it. We walked the few blocks to the Metro entrance and descended the concrete staircase.

“So, I hope you got some useful information after all that,” said Ethan as we stepped onto the train.

“Sure did,” I said, patting my bag. “Schematics. And Lafayette told me all about the vault underground, where they keep the Hope at night.”

“Oh?” His eyes flashed with excitement as we gripped onto chrome grab bars and the train accelerated away from the platform.

“Don't get too excited,” I said. “It's a perfect replica of the Geneva Freeport.”

He stopped. “Are you serious? But that's completely impenetrable.”

“I know.”

That evening I went back to my hotel alone, planning to sit down and pore over the schematics. But there was a package waiting for me at the front desk. A small box roughly the size of a shoe box.

I signed for it and took it up to my room, wondering what it could be. Was it intel from Gladys? A piece of equipment from Lucas, my tech guy? Of course I'd love it if there was an actual pair of
shoes
inside that shoe box–size box....

I poured myself a glass of wine, then sliced through the packing tape and folded open the box flaps. I recoiled in horror.

Inside was a severed hand cradled on a blue velvet cloth.

I squeezed my eyes shut and looked away as a chill of terror scudded through my body. I stayed there, frozen like that, for a long time. After a minute, I cracked my eyes and peered back inside the box. This time, I saw a small envelope inside the box, beside the hand.

It took me a long time before I gathered the nerve to grab the envelope. But eventually, my need to know overcame my repulsion. I reached in and grabbed it and scuttled away from the dreadfulness of the box.

Seattle

 

The sky had gone black many hours ago, and Jack was still at his desk at FBI headquarters. The offices were otherwise deserted as he pored over a stack of files, routine paperwork that was taking an agonizing length of time. Mostly because he just didn't give a shit. He took a sip of stale coffee, then pushed it away with disgust. Then he glanced up and looked around, realizing for the first time just how alone he was.

He rubbed the back of his head and weighed the pros and cons of the idea that had just occurred to him. Victoria Sullivan would give birth to an ostrich if she knew, but Jack couldn't resist the urge to do a little unauthorized digging in some of the inner files.

If he could just figure out the identity of the Gargoyle—something neither Interpol nor the FBI had done yet—he'd be golden. He'd be back on the case then, surely. He'd certainly have sway with Hendrickx, and he'd probably be able to convince his ball-breaker supervisor that he was capable of handling this investigation, to boot.

Jack considered jumping on the computer of his desk mate, poor trusting bugger who'd given Jack his password a few days ago. Jack was halfway over to the guy's workstation when he changed his mind. No, he couldn't be responsible for someone else getting in trouble. If there was heat to come, Jack would have to take it.

He started opening folders in the system, going into restricted areas. He had the security clearance, sure. He just knew Special Agent Sullivan had forbidden him from investigating this case.

Jack sifted through files of known heads of organized crime. Which one of these was the Gargoyle? Or was it someone else entirely?

He thought about Hendrickx over in Paris and wondered how far he was getting in the investigation. The Paris connection still bothered Jack when he thought about Cat. Was there any chance she was wrapped up in this?

No. That was crazy. Besides, Hendrickx was investigating the Louvre itself as the potential target of a theft, and that was ridiculous. There was no way Cat would be involved in a theft that major. She was still on probation with AB&T, surely.

It had to be a coincidence. Only trouble was, Jack didn't believe in coincidences. He ignored the gnawing discomfort and pushed forward.

Hendrickx had told Jack they'd be following up on a lead about a corrupt security guard—someone who had helped, and then backstabbed, major thieves in the past. Maybe he'd lead them to the Gargoyle? It was the only thing Jack knew about the Paris investigation.

And it sounded pretty weak to him.

Snyder had a much stronger connection to the Gargoyle. He was the only solid lead. There must be something they'd missed. Had they explored everything about the man? Jack pulled up some new files, the surveillance on Snyder, tracking his prior movements over the past few weeks.

There was a notation about Snyder being in Washington, D.C. Nothing weird about that. Close to Philadelphia, where he lived. Jack opened a file with a list of the places he'd been tracked to: the bowling alley, a strip club, Walmart.

And then the Smithsonian.

Now, that was weird. What would a lowlife be doing at a museum? It was the one location that didn't fit. Jack moved the cursor over to the surveillance files. He hesitated, finger hovering over the mouse button. This was definitely not allowed. Victoria Sullivan would kill him, put him on probation, string him up, whatever.

But he couldn't just leave it now.

He clicked and opened the files. He scrolled through CCTV shots of Snyder in the Smithsonian.

Unfortunately, the files contained only still shots, spread apart by five minutes. That was all the FBI had saved, not the full videos. Trying to save storage space, no doubt—more efficiency measures from their Special Agent in charge. Jack frowned.

Still, maybe there was information to be had. Jack scrutinized the shots of Snyder lingering around the main foyer of the National Museum of Natural History, as if waiting. But for what?

Next, segments showed Snyder looking at a piece of paper and selecting the second bench beside the gift shop. Then checking his watch. Like he was there for a rendezvous.

Jack cracked his knuckles.

The next shot, after an interval of five minutes, showed Snyder leaving the museum through the front door.

Jack stared at the screen. But what about a meeting? Had the still shots missed it? If it had been a brief conversation, it could have happened between the five-minute slices.

But that person must have been in the shot somewhere, either before or after.

Jack scrolled back through the frames to see if he recognized anyone in the vicinity. Tourists with their heads buried in guidebooks. A small group of students, appearing bored. A couple of important higher-ups, like the Smithsonian's security director, Jim Haversham, strolling across the foyer. And the director of the museum, Madeleine York.

Not helpful. He sat back in his chair with frustration.

Then Jack had a brain wave. He lunged forward to his keyboard and set the computer to scan all the faces in the shots before and after Snyder leaving. He specified a cross-check to highlight any persons with a criminal record.

And one name came up: Albert Faulkner III. The computer highlighted his face in the still shot. He'd been hovering by the gift shop when Snyder first sat down on the bench.

Jack minimized that screen and looked up Faulkner in the database.

A huge file scrolled up on-screen, including details of all manner of suspected and accused activity. Embezzlement. Tax evasion. Conspiracies and the like. Organized crime. Extortion. The guy was basically a walking catalog of white-collar criminal activity.

But none of the charges had ever stuck. He'd never been convicted. He had a long list of suspected associates. The guy had a huge network, clearly a deep layer of protection.

Jack sat back and folded his arms. Could Albert Faulkner be the Gargoyle?

He picked up his phone and called Criminal Justice Information Services, the FBI division that tracked people of interest and their movements.

“Special Agent Jack Barlow here. Looking for the last known location of Albert Faulkner the Third,” Jack said to the woman who answered the phone.

“Just a moment, please.” He could hear the woman punching a keyboard, searching the database.

“He has a private jet,” she said. “It took off a few days ago.”

“Destination?”

There was more clicking as the woman muttered softly about flight manifests . . . and then she got it. “Looks like they landed in Paris.”

Paris?
Jack closed his eyes and rubbed his face. It seemed he'd found his Gargoyle.

Question was, what to do about it?