Heist Society (Heist Society #1)

Heist Society (Heist Society #1) Page 31

He chuckled and watched her go. She was already out of the car when he said, “Good-bye, Katarina. Until we meet again.”

Kat stood beneath the awning of a shop and watched him leave the car and cross the street. The driver did not go with him. He walked through the apartment door alone.

Although she was not there to see it, she knew exactly what he found. Five priceless pieces of art.

Four paintings: one of Degas’s dancers and Raphael’s prodigal son; Renoir’s two boys; The Philosopher by Vermeer. And something else he hadn’t been expecting: a statue that had recently been stolen from the gallery next door.

Kat often wondered what he must have thought as he looked through the dusty, abandoned apartment at the paintings that he loved and then at a small statue that he had never seen before.

She wondered if he turned and watched the door. Perhaps he heard the Interpol officers as they rushed down the wet street and stood poised outside the apartment windows.

Did Arturo Taccone know what was going to happen? Kat would never know. It was enough for her to stand in the damp air and watch the uniformed officials swarm into the place where she had put Taccone’s paintings, and her father had stashed his stolen sculpture.

It was very much enough to stand there and watch as Arturo Taccone’s driver sped away, which was just as well. Interpol was more than willing to give his boss a ride.

“Are they in there?”

Kat shouldn’t have been surprised to hear the voice, and yet she couldn’t fight the shock in seeing the boy.

“What do you think?” she asked.

Nick smiled. “I’m not in prison, by the way,” he told her. “Just in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.” For a moment he looked almost hurt, so Kat added, “No one arrests a cop’s kid for being in a room where nothing was stolen.”

But something was stolen at the Henley. They stood there for a long time, not talking, until Nick finally said, “He used us . . . or, I guess . . . you. This Romani guy used you for a diversion, didn’t he?” Kat didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Nick stepped closer. “A con within a con.” He looked at her. “Are you mad?”

Kat thought about the Angel of the Henley, who was, at that moment, probably winging her way back to her rightful home, and she couldn’t help herself. She shook her head. “No.”

And still nothing could have surprised her more than when Nick smiled and said, “Me neither.”

“Are you flirting with me?” Kat blurted.

Kat thought it a valid, scientific question until Nick inched closer and said, “Yes.”

She stepped away from him—from the flirting. “Why’d you do it, Nick? And why don’t you tell me the truth this time?”

“I thought you’d help me catch your dad at first.”

“And then . . .” Kat prompted.

Nick shrugged and kicked at a pebble on the sidewalk. It skidded into a puddle, but she didn’t hear the splash. “I wanted to impress my mom. And then . . .”

“Yes?”

“And then I thought I could catch you—stop a robbery of the Henley, be a hero. But . . .”

Kat stared into the rainy street. She shivered. “I don’t take things that don’t belong to me.”

Nick gestured across the street to the pair of officers who were leading Arturo Taccone from the apartment in handcuffs. “You took from him.”

She thought of Mr. Stein. “They don’t belong to him either.”

A moment later another car pulled through the crowd that was quickly growing across the street. A beautiful black-haired woman stepped from the backseat. If she saw her son beneath the awning, she did not wave or smile or question why he’d ignored her instructions not to leave their hotel without permission.

“You really are good, Kat,” he told her.

“Do you mean good as in skilled or just . . . good?”

He smiled. “You know what I mean.”

Kat watched Nick walk away, until the police car carrying Arturo Taccone pulled out into the street, blocking her view. As far as she knew, Nick never looked back. Which wasn’t fair, Kat thought. Because, from that point on, she was going to be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life.

Kat sensed more than saw the black limo that pulled slowly to the curb beside her. She heard a smooth whirling sound as the dark glass of the back window disappeared and a young man leaned out.

“So that fella there is the one who robbed that nice gallery?” Hale asked, his eyes wide as he pointed to the disappearing police car.

“It appears so,” Kat said. “I heard he actually slid the statue through a hole in the wall and into that vacant apartment.”

“Genius,” Hale said with a tad too much enthusiasm.

Kat laughed as Hale opened the door, and she slid inside. “Yes,” she said slowly. “In theory. Except robbing a gallery tends to make the police spend a lot of time at the gallery. . . .”

“And then how does a guy get his statue?”

Kat knew it was her turn—her line. But she was tired of playing games. And maybe Hale was too. Maybe.

He glanced down the street where Nick had disappeared. “You’re not leaving with your boyfriend?”

Kat eased her head back onto the soft leather. “Maybe.” She closed her eyes and thought that perhaps this flirting thing wasn’t so difficult after all. “Maybe not . . . Wyndham?”

She heard Hale laugh softly then call, “Marcus, take us home.”

As they eased into traffic, she let the warmth of the car wash over her. She didn’t protest as Hale slid his arm around her and pulled her to rest against his chest. It was somehow softer there than she remembered.

“Welcome back, Kat,” he told her as she drifted off to sleep. “Welcome back.”

25 Days After Deadline

Chapter 37

They did not go to Cannes for Christmas. Uncle Eddie claimed he was too old to travel—too set in his ways to be persuaded to change. So Kat and her father joined the throng that descended upon the old brownstone.

Inside it was stuffy, as it always was in winter, with a fire blazing in every room and Uncle Eddie’s old stove burning in the kitchen. So when Kat stepped out onto the stoop, she didn’t mind the chill.

“I thought I might find you here, Katarina.”

For a brief second she panicked, then realized the voice wasn’t Taccone’s. It was too gentle. Too kind. Too happy.

“Happy holidays, Mr. Stein.”

“Happy holidays, Katarina,” he said, tipping his hat.

She gestured toward the door. “Would you like to come inside?”

He quickly waved her away. “Oh no, Katarina. I have found the person I was searching for.” He took a step back. “Would you mind accompanying an old man for a short stroll?”

It was an easy question to answer—one of the few she’d heard in a very long time.

“You’ve made an enemy, my dear.”

Kat turned up her collar against the icy wind. “I could have given them back and stolen them later, but—”

“Your father’s unfortunate incarceration?” he guessed.

Kat shrugged. “My way seemed more efficient at the time.”

The first time she had met Abiram Stein, she had seen him cry. There was something beautiful, Kat thought, about watching him laugh.

“I read a nice article about you,” she told him.

“The Times?”

“No, the London Telegraph.”

He sighed. “There have been so many. Evidently I am something of an—what is the phrase—overnight sensation?”

She laughed. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

They strolled together on the quiet street, with only the few stray snowflakes that fell as company. “I feel as if I should thank you, Katarina. But that”—he stopped and placed his hands in his pockets—“that is far too small a thing to do.”

“Are they . . .” Kat hesitated, her voice breaking, “home?”

“Some,” he assured her. “There are a few families— survivors—that my colleagues and I have located. You have read their stories, yes?” Kat nodded. “But for the others, Katarina, I’m afraid their homes”—he struggled for words— “are gone.”

The snow picked up, falling more heavily as he continued, “But the paintings live. People know their stories now. A new generation will hear their tales. And they will hang in the great museums of the world and not in a prison.” He stepped closer. His hands gripped her arms as he kissed her once on each cheek then whispered, “You have set them free.”

She looked down at the wet sidewalk.

“One was missing.” She hadn’t said a word about the fifth painting—the empty frame—but somehow she knew Abiram Stein would understand. “There were only four. I tried, but—”

“Yes, Katarina,” he said, nodding. “I know this painting.”

“I’ll find it. I’ll get it back, too.”

There was a growing sense of urgency coursing through her, but Mr. Stein was calm as he spoke. “Did your mother ever mention why she came to me, Katarina? Did you know that your great-great-grandmother was a very fine painter in her own right?”

Kat nodded. She did know. Who else could have forged the Mona Lisa that hung in the Louvre?

“And did you know that one of her great friends was a young artist named Claude Monet?”

There were many rumors among a family of thieves, and this particular tale was one that Kat had never believed . . . until now.

“He painted her once, your great-great-grandmother. And he gave her the canvas as a gift. It was her pride and joy—her most prized possession. Until 1936, when a young Nazi officer took it from her wall.”

“But—” Kat started.

“Your great-great-grandmother wasn’t Jewish?” Abiram Stein guessed. Then he smiled. “The Nazis could be very equal-opportunity with their greed, my dear.”

“So my mom was looking for her great-grandmother’s painting?” Kat said, understanding her a little better.

“The one thing she couldn’t steal.” Abiram smiled. “I would not worry yourself about the last painting, Katarina. These things have a way of finding their way home.”

“And the Angel ?” Kat asked.

“Oh, I think our friend Mr. Romani will see to her return himself.”

They stopped at the end of the block, and Kat watched while he hailed a cab. “A wise woman once told me that someone like you could be of great use to someone like me. Would you agree?” But something in his expression told Kat that he already had his answer.

He stepped toward the waiting cab. “Good-bye, Katarina.” There was a new twinkle in his eye as he crawled inside and started to close the door. “I feel quite sure we’ll meet again.”

Kat would have liked to believe that she’d known which twists were coming—that she’d seen all of Romani’s pieces and predicted where he might make his next play. But as she walked back toward the brownstone, she knew that wasn’t true. She was not a master thief. She wasn’t as good as Romani or Uncle Eddie. She would never be her father or her mother. But she wasn’t the girl who had fled to—or from—Colgan either.