Chapter 36

Teddy drove from the Arrington to his office at Centurion Pictures, as it was more convenient than his home in the Hollywood Hills.

A year earlier, he had personally installed a floor safe, hiding it under the credenza behind his desk. With the touch of a button, the credenza slid out of the way. He tapped in the code and swung the safe's door open.

From inside, he retrieved a laptop that was loaded with the CIA's latest black ops digital tools. He'd obtained them via a back door into the Agency's system that he'd created himself.

One of the apps contained links into restricted record databases throughout the world. Teddy used it to get into the property records for the state of California, where he conducted searches for Simon Duchamp and the Duchamp Gallery. There were no hits for either.

Another link led him to a very handy, aggregate database that combined hotel booking records from the major chains in the U.S. This proved more fruitful.

Three rooms at the Verdugo Royale Hotel in Beverly Hills were currently booked by Duchamp Gallery. Two standard rooms and a suite. Teddy was sure Simon Duchamp would be in the latter.

He exchanged the laptop for a few items he thought he might need from the safe, then returned his office to its normal state.

At the studio's costume department, he picked up a pair of gray coveralls and black work shoes, and at props, a length of rope, all of which went into a duffel. He then returned to his Porsche and headed out.

His next stop was a parking garage at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. At this time of night, there were several open spots and almost no one walking around. With the help of the makeup kit he kept in his car and a wig from his safe, he turned himself into a middle-aged everyman, with a face not even a mother would remember. He then donned the coveralls and shoes to complete his transformation. Sporting a new identity, he drove to Beverly Hills and parked a few blocks from the Verdugo Royale Hotel.

Ten minutes later, he was rappelling from a balcony of an unoccupied suite onto the one belonging to Duchamp's room. He landed without a sound, untied himself, and crept to the windows.

Inside, a man sat at a dining table, working on a laptop. He was angled so that Teddy could only see a portion of his face, but it was enough to determine he fit the description of Duchamp.

Teddy pulled out a listening device designed specifically to pick up voices through glass and stuck it to the lower corner of the windowed wall. He then climbed back to the balcony above.

On his way out of the hotel, he hid a relay in a maintenance supply closet. The device would upload to the cloud everything the bugs picked up, allowing Teddy to access the data whenever and wherever he wanted.

One hundred and twenty miles to the south, near the city of Del Mar, Benji and his crew were crouched behind a hedge, preparing to steal the final Matilda Stone for Simon. Tonight, they were dressed as firefighters.

"Are we going to just wait around or what?" Sticks whispered.

Benji grimaced. "You're sure you can control it?"

"Have I ever not been able to?"

Benji almost brought up last night's blaze. It had definitely burned out of control and had even taken the life of the guy they'd dumped at the side of the road—the potential repercussions for which Benji was trying hard not to think about. He knew if he mentioned the fire, though, Sticks would throw the blame right back into his lap. Benji was the one who forgot to call 911, after all.

So instead, he said, "Sorry. The schedule just has me on edge."

"I can control it, okay?"

"Okay."

When Simon had pulled Benji into his office to talk about the next job, Benji was already expecting the worst. He'd been there for his brother's conversation with the client, and his eyes had nearly bugged out of his head when he heard that the client was expecting three paintings on Friday. He'd assumed Simon would have given Benji a day to prep, meaning they'd steal the painting on Thursday night. But no, Simon wanted it at the gallery Thursday morning. Which meant they had to get it tonight.

Two thefts in two nights. They had never done that before. Hell, before last night, they had never done two within a week of each other.

The target was also less than appealing. Instead of being surrounded by wilderness, it was in an upscale gated community. Using the brushfire excuse wasn't going to work here. Plus, they had to sneak into the area on foot and would have to leave with the painting the same way. Even a week of preparation wouldn't have been enough to do this one right.

Benji didn't like it, but it wasn't like he could say no.

"Check your devices one more time," Benji said to Sticks.

Sticks rolled his eyes but kept any comments to himself and crept away. He returned ten minutes later and gave Benji a thumbs-up.

Benji tapped Devin on the shoulder and nodded.

Devin headed off on a route that would take him to the street the house was on. Soon, his voice came over Benji's earpiece. "In position."

"Do it," Benji whispered to Sticks.

Sticks smirked and tapped his phone screen.

Within seconds, flames sparked at several points along the back of the house at the north end. Benji waited until he was sure the wall was burning, then turned on his mic. "Devin, you're up."

"Copy," Devin said.

As planned, Devin left his mic on so that Benji heard him pound on the front door until it opened.

"What the hell?" a man's voice said, muffled by the door.

"Your house is on fire," Devin said. "You need to get out."

"What?"

"Is there anyone else in the house?"

"Um, my son's upstairs."

"Is that it?"

"Yes."

"I'll get him, it's safer that way. Please, I insist you move to the street."

"Wait. Are you alone? Where's your truck?"

"Not alone and the truck will be here soon. Now, sir, you need to go now!"

The man moved as instructed, and the conversation was replaced with the sound of movement. Then there was a click and Devin said, "Back door unlocked."

Benji and Sticks ran to the French doors at the back of the house. Pulling it open, Benji rushed inside just in time to see Devin disappear up the stairs to grab the son.

"This way," he said to Sticks.

With how quickly this job had been thrown together, Benji half expected the info about the painting being in the formal dining room would be wrong. But sure enough, the Stone hung right where it was supposed to be.

Benji pulled it down, removed it from its frame, and leaned the frame against the wall. Sticks then placed one of his fire starters on the floor against the frame. Since there had been no time to prep any false evidence, the frame alone would have to sell the idea that the painting had burned.

By the time Sticks said "Ready," Benji had the Stone wrapped in a fire blanket.

"Light it up," Benji said.

The device burst into flames that quickly spread onto the wall.

"Let's go," Benji said.

He raced into the living room.

From across the room a deep voice yelled, "What the hell are you doing?"

A middle-aged man stared at Benji from the base of the stairs, one foot on the first riser, as if he had been about to go up, his voice identical to that of the homeowner Devin was supposed to have sent away.

"This house is on fire!" Benji shouted. "You need to get out!"

"What is that under your arm?"

"Sir! You shouldn't be in here. It's too dangerous."

From above came the sound of running feet. A younger clone of the guy came halfway down the stairs, then stopped. Devin was right behind him.

"Dad?" the kid said. "This guy said the house is on fire."

"Let's go, let's go," Devin said.

The father's gaze moved past Benji and Sticks to the dining room entrance. From his angle he could see the empty frame and the flames below it.

He looked back at Benji. "Is that my painting?"

"Let's go!" Benji yelled and began running toward the open French doors.

"You're the people the insurance people called me about today, aren't you?"

Benji nearly tripped over his own feet. He looked back. Before he could ask what the guy meant, Sticks grabbed his shoulders and pushed him toward the French doors. "Run, dammit!"

They sprinted out the doors and across the backyard. They had just reached the hedges when a gunshot sounded behind them.

"Oh, shit!" Sticks exclaimed, then raced past Benji toward the fence around the community.

Benji glanced over his shoulder, looking for Devin, but didn't see him. He told himself it had probably been easier for his friend to escape through the front door, not wanting to consider the alternative.

Sticks scaled the fence first and started to run again.

"Where the hell are you going?" Benji said. "You have to help me."

There was a moment when it looked like Sticks was going to ignore him, but he came back and Benji passed the painting to him before scaling the fence himself. They hurried back to their car.

Devin wasn't there yet. They climbed in, and Benji started the engine, but didn't put it into gear.

"We gotta go!" Sticks said.

"We're waiting for Devin."

"Fuck Devin. If he got out, he would have radioed us by now."

Benji had completely forgotten about the radio. He checked his mic. It was still on. "Devin, you there?"

Silence.

"Devin?"

Still nothing.

"Maybe his radio broke."

"Right, sure." Sticks clearly didn't believe that. "Come on, Benji. Maybe he got caught, maybe he didn't. Whatever happened, we're dead meat if we don't go."

Benji scowled, then started the car, knowing Sticks was right.

Once they were safely on the freeway heading north, he called his brother.

"Did you get it?" Simon said, through the car's speakers.

"We did, but—"

"Then why are you calling me? It's…after midnight."

"We might have a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"Something might have happened to Devin."

"Might have?"

"Things went sideways before we left the house. The owner saw us. Sticks and I got away with the painting, but I don't know what happened to Devin. I can't reach him."

"He's probably just—how do you say it?—lying low."

Memory of the gunshot echoed in Benji's mind. "I'm not so sure."

"You got the painting. That's what matters."

"Except the guy we took it from knows it didn't burn."

There was a long pause in which Benji feared his brother realized the severity of the situation. Instead of addressing it directly, though, Simon's tone simply turned low and threatening. "I'll be at the gallery tomorrow morning by nine-thirty. I expect you to be waiting for me."

He hung up.

"Devin was right," Sticks said. "Your brother is an asshole."

Benji sighed. "He is."

"How much longer are you going to work for him?"

"Until he doesn't need us anymore."

"Buddy, there is no ‘us' here. After the drop-off, I'm done with him."

"And then what? You're not going to find a job that pays as good as this one."

Sticks snorted. "I already have."

Benji shot him a surprised look. "With who?"

"Why would I tell you?"

Neither said a word for the next few miles.

Then Benji said, "Any room on that new job for me?"