Sometimes, poring over my black market reference books, I felt like an overeager army recruit, digesting ballistics tables for weapons I’d never fire, tactical manuals for situations I’d never encounter. Devouring everything in an effort to “be all that I could be.” The council had taken a chance on me and turned my life around. I owed them my best.
Security system disabled, the man walked to the display and, with a few adroit moves, scooped up three pieces as easily as if he’d been swiping loose candy from a store shelf. As he did, something about him looked familiar, the way his hands moved, the way he held himself, the cut of his tuxedo. When he did turn, face glowing in the display lights, I cursed under my breath. It was the man I’d crashed into at the buffet table.
The oath was for me—I’d been inches from a supernatural and hadn’t noticed. I could blame that silly “dead duck” vision and the ensuing confusion, but I couldn’t rest on excuses. I needed to be better than that.
Jewelry stashed in an inside breast pocket, the man crossed the floor. I pulled the gun from my purse and crept forward, crouched to stay under the glass. When he came through that open window again, I’d—
Wait—how was he going to climb out of it? He hadn’t left a rope … meaning he didn’t plan to exit the way he’d come in. Shit!
I popped my head over the window edge to see him at the door. It was barred on the inside, vertical metal bars, extra security hidden from passersby who would see only a closed door.
The man reached one gloved hand through the bars and pushed the handle. The door opened a crack, any electronic security having been overridden from the panel he’d disabled. So he could open the door. Great, but that still left those metal bars—
He took hold of the nearest bar, flexed his hand, and pulled. As I stared, he pried open a space big enough to slip through and—
Wake up, girl! He’s going to get away.
I snapped my hanging jaw shut and broke into a hunched-over jog as I mentally ran through the layout of the museum. At the first junction there’d be back stairs to the main level. Those stairs led to an emergency exit, but the stairwell itself could be used without tripping a fire alarm.
But did it trigger anything else? Maybe a signal in the security station? I couldn’t worry about that. When I hit the doorway, I quickly checked for security cameras and then pushed open the door, tore down the steps.
FOUR
Pulse racing, I forced myself to slow enough to peek out the main-level door first. It opened into a dark hallway. No security cameras in sight. I put on my shoes, stuffed my charm bracelet into my purse, and stepped out.
I looked around the next corner to see the thief step into the well-lit main hall leading to the main doors. Cheeky bastard. He wasn’t even hurrying.
I did hurry. I raced down the hall and called, “Excuse me!”
He didn’t slow … or speed up, just smiled and tipped his head to a trio of women at the coat check. I picked up my pace. He made it to the door and paused to hold it open for an exiting elderly couple.
I covered the last few paces at a jog. He saw me then—the yellow dress did it, I’m sure. A friendly smile and nod, and he continued on.
“My bracelet,” I said, breathing hard, as if I’d chased him from the party. “Charm—my charm bracelet—it snagged—”
“Slow down.” His fingers touched my arm, and he frowned in polite concern. “Here, let’s step out of the way.”
His finger still resting on my arm, he steered me into a side hall, a scant yard or so in, far enough from the door to speak privately but not so far from others as to alarm me. Damned smooth … and damned calm for a guy with a pocketful of stolen jewelry.
“My bracelet snagged on your jacket,” I said. “In the buffet line—”
“Yes, of course. It isn’t broken, is it?” His frown grew.
“It’s gone. I noticed it right away, and I’ve been trying to find you ever since. It must have still been caught on your jacket or—”
“Or, more likely, fell onto the floor. I’m sorry, but if it did catch on me”—he lifted his arms and displayed his sleeves—“it’s long since fallen off. It must be on the floor somewhere.”
“It isn’t. I checked everywhere.”
Frustration darted behind his eyes. “Then I would suggest, as reprehensible as the thought is, that someone picked it up with no intention of returning it.”
Amazing, he could say that with a straight face. Then again, I suspected he could say pretty much anything with a straight face.
“You mean someone stole it?” I said.
“Possibly, although, considering the guest list, I realize that’s hard to believe.”
“Oh, I believe it,” I said, letting my voice harden. “I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, but your conclusion just proved me wrong. It didn’t fall into your pocket, did it?”
He chased away his surprise with a laugh. “I believe someone has had one glass of champagne too many. What on earth would I do with a … cheap bauble like that?”
He faltered on “cheap bauble.” The man could spin lies with a face sincere enough to fool angels, but lying about his specialty gave him pause. Even in that brief moment of untangling my bracelet, he recognized it for what it was—a valuable heirloom, each charm custom-made. I was surprised he hadn’t tried to nick it in the confusion of our collision.
He continued, “And, if I recall correctly, you bumped into me.”
“I tripped over you … and I’m pretty sure that wasn’t an accident.”
“You think I tripped—?”
A security guard glanced down the hall.
He lowered his voice. “I assure you, I did not steal your bracelet, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t accuse me quite so publicly—”
“You think this is public?” I strode past him toward the main hall. “Let’s make this public. We’ll catch up with that guard, you let him search you, and if I’m wrong—”
He grabbed my arm, his grip tight, then loosening as I turned toward him.
He managed a smile. “I would rather not end my evening by being frisked. Why don’t I help you search for it, and if we don’t find it, I’ll willingly submit to the search.”
I pretended to think it over and then nodded.
“Last time I saw it was when you freed it from your jacket,” I said. “Then I went to the cloakroom, to get my scarf to cover this”—I pointed to the marinara spot—“and I noticed the bracelet was gone. Maybe—” I paused. “When I was looking for the cloakroom, I walked into the wrong room—it was dark, and I brushed against something.”
“Perfect. Let’s start there, then.”
The room I had in mind was a janitorial closet I’d discovered in fourth grade, when my best friend and I had hid after we’d been caught ducking out of the pottery exhibit and sneaking into arms-and-armor. My fault. I’d loved that gallery, even more than mummies and dinosaurs. Even at eight, I could stand in front of those ancient weapons, close my eyes, and hear the clash of metal on metal, smell the blood-streaked sweat, see the rearing horses, feel the hate, the fear, the panic … and feel my own soul rise to drink it in.
At the time, perhaps thankfully, I’d seen nothing wrong with my “fixations,” nor had anyone around me—at my mother’s insistence—chalking it up to a child’s bloodthirsty imagination.
As for my second visit to the janitorial closet, that one had no such demonic backstory, only the raging hormones of youth when, on a high school field trip, a cute boy and a dark closet held infinitely more attraction than even the weaponry exhibits.