Dubbing the cases the twins, she set the shelf and shoes back the way they were. Then she started thinking how she’d do it, how she’d run off with the twins and live to spend the money.
Ronnie Trane had three rules for breaking into places. First rule: keep your edge, be smooth going in, and don’t overthink it. Tighten up and you start screwing up. Rule two: no drugs, no more booze. A little weed maybe, a couple tokes to help keep it all smooth. Three: never go back. Forget about what you didn’t get the first time. Greed spells prison.
That one time he got busted, Ronnie broke all three rules by the time the cuffs were on. Tripping a silent alarm in the same Altamont mansion he’d robbed the month before. He’d helped himself to a bottle of Cabo Wabo and drank most of it by the time he tried to make it over the back fence with the pair of vases in a sack.
Counting off his rules now as he drove along Chartwell, waiting up the street in the stolen Corolla until the lights in the house went off. Parking over by Vinson Creek, he walked back to the driveway, making it look natural, like Lonzo was expecting him to drop by, middle of the night.
Ronnie kept his eyes wide and ears sharp, ready for anything. Picking up a newspaper from the driveway, he headed around the back and slipped a hand in his pocket for the glass cutter — knowing the alarm-company stickers on the windows were fake, no surveillance cameras under the eaves. Lonzo used to brag when Ronnie was driving him around how he dared any asshole to break into his place. Being armed to the teeth was the only security a man needed.
Since Lonzo had fired him, Ronnie hadn’t been able to find a straight job, not a decent one anyway. Nobody was willing to take a chance on an ex-con. It got him thinking a little payback was due.
He started staking out Lonzo’s place, learning his routine and making sure the crook hadn’t got a dog. He read in the North Shore News about some guy breaking into a place in Deep Cove last month, getting cornered by one of those German breeds. Had to lock himself in the upstairs can, the dog snarling and bashing against the door. The guy ended up making a 911 call on himself. Cops and canine control coming and finding the guy with a pillowcase stuffed with silverware next to the toilet. Never going to live that one down in any house of corrections.
Ronnie had followed them tonight, Lonzo and Bobbi coming out of Venue. Lonzo staggering, Bobbi having to drive. Perfect. Ronnie trailed the Mercedes across the Lion’s Gate Bridge, giving himself a pep talk, convincing himself this guy had it coming.
Looking at the lights of the houses on the slope, thinking this part of town had been good to him. Broke into over a dozen places in what Ronnie liked to call Martini Hill. Scored over twenty-five grand in cash, jewelry, and easy stuff to fence. Ronnie feeling confident, thinking he knew these streets and the rich folks with their valuables and secrets, cars worth over a hundred grand in the driveways, usually more than one. Only got busted that one time. Ronnie blamed the booze.
First Bobbi got her hands on some club drug from a dealer in North Van, a guy Lonzo didn’t know. The dealer promised this shit was the bomb, some name she couldn’t pronounce, assured her it would last half the night.
Then she slipped enough in his drink at Venue to knock out a horse. Listening to his ragged snores now, she got out of the bed. Lonzo rolled her way, flopping his arm across her pillow. Bobbi waited till he settled, waited for the beast down his throat to start up again. Going barefoot past the windows that rose to the high ceiling, the panorama of the city lost in a bank of clouds, top of the British Properties. Great view when it wasn’t raining. Going to the can, seeing the lit pool shimmering out back, the raindrops making little circles in the water. Lonzo always bragged about this place being worth ten million, easy.
Sitting on the toilet, she did some deep breathing and played it through one more time: take the Beretta he kept next to the bed, grab the twins, take his car keys, and get the hell out of there. Then pray there was enough cash to put an ocean between her and Lonzo, thinking maybe Paris would be nice.
Back in the bedroom, she was careful not to bump into things. Slipping into her panties, hooking her bra in back, she went to his nightstand and took the Beretta from the drawer. Lonzo out cold, the beast getting snagged between an inhale and exhale. That’s when she heard it.
Bobbi’s own breath caught. Standing, she held the Beretta ready, hearing it again, a slight rattle at the bedroom door. Grabbing her robe, she slung it on, moving to the door, sure she saw the knob turn. Bobbi wanted to shake Lonzo awake and press the gun in his hand, but he was drugged and useless.
The knob turned again, somebody on the other side of the door, working at the flimsy lock. Bobbi raised the pistol, feeling her heart and the wet under her arms, aiming just above the knob, her finger on the trigger.
Crawling in through the basement window had been easy. It took Ronnie two minutes to work his way through the house, stopping every few steps, listening, using the pen light to guide his way. The snores coming through the door sounded like a phlegmy musical with a chorus of wheezing. Getting past the flimsy lock on the bedroom door, Ronnie turned the knob, easing it open and peeking in, saw Lonzo splayed across the king bed. Thinking, man, how does that chick Bobbi sleep next to that? Guessing she was in one of the other bedrooms.
Keeping to the shadows along the wall, Ronnie moved to the nightstand, knowing Lonzo would have a gun in reach, the man bragging about all the firepower he kept stashed in the house. Easing open the drawer, finding nothing, he went to the dresser. Ronnie knew about Lonzo’s getaway cash, Lonzo bragging about that too, saying it was to make a hasty exit in case the Mounties came banging at his door. All Ronnie had to do was find it, sure Lonzo kept it close to where he slept. He was helping himself to the Rolex and wallet on top of the dresser when he felt it — steel pressed to his ear. He froze, his heart jumping. The hairs on the back of his neck prickling, bladder nearly letting go.
Taking the pistol from his ear, Bobbi waited for him to half turn, wagged for him to go to the can. One hand holding the pistol, the other snugging the dressing gown closed, she stepped behind him, easing the bathroom door closed.
“The hell you doing, Ronnie?” she whispered. Remembering the way he used to glance at her in the rearview, always pretending not to listen in on their conversations in the backseat while he played chauffeur.
“Hey, Bobbi.” He shrugged, catching her scent.
“Here to get your old job back?”
“Funny.” His eyes going to the pistol. “So, now what?”
“That’s not the question.” Thinking a moment, she reached behind her for the knob, keeping an eye on him, saying, “Give me a hand, and maybe you come out of this.”
Not sure what she meant, but he nodded anyway.
Opening the door, she pointed to the walk-in closet, keeping the pistol on him. Whispering for him to move the shoes and lift out the lower shelf. Taking out the twins, one in each hand, he tiptoed behind her through the bedroom, Lonzo still out cold, snoring away like a freight train.
She stopped in the hall, whispered, “Wait here.” Leaving him at the top of the stairs, she disappeared back into the room.
Ronnie thought of rushing down the stairs, knowing he was holding Lonzo’s getaway cash. Still thinking about it when she returned, clothes draped over her arm, a pair of shoes in her hand, the pistol in the other. She motioned for him to walk ahead of her down the stairs. At the bottom, she told him to hang on, dropping the robe. Not too dark to make out the black bra and panties, Ronnie watched her slip into her clothes. One foot at a time going into the shoes.