The Heist

  She landed in Girardeau, picked up a rental car, and drove to the Stony Peak Lodge, which wasn’t on a peak and wasn’t stony. It was a ’60s-era motel beside a freeway that a regional hotel chain had renovated by building a two-story A-frame lobby between two of the wings. It was like putting antlers on a dog and calling it a reindeer.

  Kate parked in the lot and staggered into the lobby, dragging her suitcase on wheels up to the front desk. The lobby reeked of popcorn from a movie-style popper stuck in a far corner. There was a big stone fireplace with a roaring gas fire, the flames licking at concrete logs. The walls were decorated with mounted animal heads, all fakes that made it look like somebody had slaughtered a lot of Disney characters. The desk clerk standing under the dismembered heads of Tigger and Bambi was blond, rail thin, and in her early twenties.

  “I’d like a room,” Kate said, sliding across her credit card. “As far away from the freeway as possible, nonsmoking, with two double beds.”

  “How long will you be staying?”

  “Two nights,” she said.

  The clerk ran Kate’s credit card, Kate got her key, and as she turned to leave she crashed into Nick.

  “What the heck?” Kate said, taking a step back, shocked to see him standing there.

  He was wearing a V-neck pullover, jeans, and Vans. No ketchup stains. No airplane hair. He was looking relaxed and as handsome as ever. And he was smiling. Looking like he was having fun. She had no clue how he did it, but the guy always looked like he was having fun. Even now that he was working for the government he looked like he was having fun, and no one was supposed to have fun working for the government.

  “How did you get here so fast?” Kate asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Private jet,” Nick said.

  “You have a private jet?”

  “No, but billionaire Count Lippe of Lisbon is in the market to lease two or three of them, so the sales staff of UniJet Global in London were eager to give him a demonstration flight to the U.S. to show off their amenities and services,” Nick said. “The lobster was excellent and the masseuse was a nice touch that I hadn’t expected.”

  Kate’s amenities and services were an economy class chair that reclined 2 degrees, a flat can of Coke, and a bag of stale pretzels.

  “Is there really a Count Lippe?” she asked.

  “Of course, and he cherishes his privacy, which is why there are so few photos of him around and instances of mistaken identity are bound to arise.”

  “Only if someone goes around calling himself Count Lippe and leasing airplanes,” Kate said. “This is how you keep a low profile? How many counts do you think fly into Cape Girardeau in private jets?”

  “You think I was putting our operation at risk just to indulge myself in extravagance,” Nick said.

  “You had lobster and a midair massage.”

  “You are missing the practical aspects.”

  “I certainly am,” she said, stopping outside the door to her first-floor room, which was conveniently located next to the ice maker and the vending machines. She was certain that if Stony Peak Lodge had a presidential suite, Nick was in it.

  “I flew straight into St. Louis on a private jet, thus avoiding an international commercial flight and the chance of being recognized at customs in New York, where they are on heightened alert for terrorists and felons. Things go much smoother on a private VIP level, especially in smaller international airports in midwestern cities. I rented a car as Nicolas Raider and drove here. So Count Lippe, in essence, disappeared upon arrival in St. Louis. And by using the Raider alias, I quietly checked us in with Bolton, who certainly knows by now that we’re both back home and on the job.”

  Kate couldn’t argue with the practicality or logic behind his choices, though she really wished that she could. His reasoning demonstrated to her why he’d evaded arrest for so long. There was more going on beneath the surface of his actions, even the ones that seemed frivolous or indulgent, than she’d ever realized. She appreciated the knowledge. It would make it easier to catch him next time.

  Nick checked his watch. “We have two tickets to the seven P.M. show of Death of Salesman, so you’d better get ready.”

  “Tonight?”

  “We aren’t on vacation here,” he said. “We have a job to do. I thought you were indefatigable.” He looked at her chest. “Is that ketchup?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a good color on you. You should wear red more often.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. What’s the dress code tonight?”

  “Missouri black tie,” Nick said. “No shirt, no shoes, no service.”

  Country Mama’s Buffet & Theater was located next door to the Stony Peak Lodge. The hostess who seated Kate and Nick told them to help themselves to the buffet, enjoy the show, and have a blessed meal.

  Kate didn’t think a blessing was going to be nearly enough to save them from what they were facing. Everything at Country Mama’s was fried, breaded, cheesed, and noodled, including the desserts. She thought it was no wonder most of the diners prayed before they ate. What the buffet really needed wasn’t blessings or prayers but a team of paramedics on standby and a priest on hand to perform last rites. And Kate couldn’t wait to dig in.

  “Yum,” Kate said, “this looks fantastic.”

  Nick grinned. “Go for it.”

  She came back to their table with a mountain of fried chicken, broccoli noodle casserole, hash brown casserole, fried corn bread, buttermilk biscuits, fried shrimp, an oozing glob of grits, fried okra, and dumplings. All smothered in gravy.

  “That looks like the artery-clogging special,” Nick said to Kate.

  “I have excellent genes,” Kate said. “No one in my family has ever had heart disease. We all die from unfortunate circumstance. Like my Uncle Stump got run over by a cement truck. And my Aunt Jean was struck by lightning.”

  “That didn’t turn up in my research on you.”

  Kate glanced at his plate. No food. “You obviously didn’t bring me here because you like the cuisine,” she said. “So why are we here?”

  “We’re here for the show.”

  Kate dug in to her broccoli noodle casserole and looked over at the makeshift stage set up against the far wall of the huge dining room. Someone had hung a crudely painted canvas backdrop of a living room and placed a couple pieces of worn-out furniture on the wood riser.

  Halfway into the dessert course Kate paused to listen to the cast introductions. Boyd Capwell, as Willy Loman, was the headliner. All the others were local amateurs. As far as Kate could tell, none of the diners had much interest in the production. Conversation continued after the show started, and the actors were frequently obscured by people passing the stage to make trips to the buffet line.

  “This is horrible,” Kate whispered to Nick, wishing she had the nerve to scuttle in front of the stage for another piece of pie. “This is the worst acting ever.”

  “Concentrate on Boyd Capwell. I stumbled on Boyd performing three roles in Equus in a hotel dinner theater in Billings, Montana, after some cast members were sidelined with food poisoning. Boyd actually managed to pull it off, delivering three distinct performances, even when he was the only one on stage. I’ve kept my eye out for Boyd’s shows during my travels and ended up seeing him in productions all over the country. He has a broad range, as well as an ability to perform in the worst possible circumstances. I once saw Boyd hold the audience spellbound in a dinner theater production of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest in El Paso, and in the middle of a key dramatic scene he performed the Heimlich maneuver on a woman choking on a buffalo wing without breaking character.”

  “Good to know in case I get a chunk of apple pie stuck in my throat tonight.”

  “You scoff, but at the rate you’re shoveling the food in you might need his help. Do you ever chew anything?”

  “Excuse me, but I’m starving. I didn’t have caviar and hot fudge sundaes on my flight.” She cut her eyes to Boy
d. “So how did this amazing actor end up exiled to the dinner theater circuit?”

  “He’s a nut. He won’t compromise on his artistic vision. Early in his career he was offered a big break, the chance to be the new voice of Casper the Friendly Ghost, but he got fired when he insisted on playing the character in anguish and misery. He told the director that Casper was a dead child, for God’s sake, what does he have to be happy-go-lucky about? More recently, he was hired for a beer commercial, and he said he needed to know the background of his character. Did he graduate from college? Was he married? What was his ethnic background? The director screamed at him to just drink the freaking beer, and Boyd walked off the set. He said he couldn’t create under the existing circumstances.”

  “Now he’s here as Willy Loman, in Cape Girardeau,” Kate said.

  “Yep,” Nick said. “Check him out.”

  Kate pushed aside thoughts of more lemon meringue pie and found herself completely captivated by Boyd’s performance. It was as if he was infusing Willy Loman with his own lifetime of disappointments, unfulfilled dreams, and unmet potential. It was a genuinely moving performance.

  “You’re right,” Kate said when the play was over. “He’s good.”

  “He’s better than that,” Nick said. “He’s a natural grifter, he just doesn’t know it yet. He’s going to join our band of merry men.”

  Kate felt the gravy and grits slide around in her stomach. This was the first step on the road to hell. Kate’s original assignment from Jessup had been to watch over Nick and make sure he was kept out of harm’s way. Now, as the con was beginning to unfold, she realized she was going to have to play a role in it. There was no room for an observer in the con. There was only room for participants. She was going to help Nick persuade this poor schmuck to enter a life of crime. And she shuddered to think what she’d be called upon to do in the future. Not that she hadn’t done some morally questionable things in the past, depending on how you felt about shooting at people and home invasion in foreign countries. Granted they were all legal military operations, but some people (and even possibly God) might find them unsavory. And then there were smaller transgressions, like cheating on her final algebra exam in tenth grade and wearing a push-up bra for Megan’s wedding so her breasts could compete with her sister’s.

  Nick intercepted Boyd as he was leaving the stage and asked him to join them to discuss Boyd’s possible participation in a new production in Los Angeles.

  “You bet. Give me five minutes,” Boyd said. “I need to get out of character.”

  Boyd joined Nick and Kate after he’d removed his makeup and made a pass through the buffet line. His plate was loaded, and Kate was pretty sure he had a few rolls stuffed into his pockets. He was good-looking, she thought, but in a slightly dated way, like last year’s model of a sports car immediately after the sleeker, redesigned model has come out. And he moved as if there was a spotlight following him. Even his littlest gestures, whether it was putting his napkin into his lap or reaching for his silverware, had flamboyance, as though he was aware, or at least hoping, that people were watching his every move. Not entirely attractive in a man, but oddly compelling to watch.

  Nick introduced himself without giving a last name. “And this is my associate, Kate,” he said.

  “What did you think of my performance?” Boyd asked Kate. “I was a little worried I might have played the ending with too much intensity.”

  “No way,” Kate said. “You were great. I don’t know how you were able to keep focused with all those people walking in front of the stage on their way to the buffet.”

  Boyd pulled a roll and two pats of butter out of his pocket and set them beside his plate. “You have to be a bit delusional to be an actor. In my mind, I wasn’t in a restaurant performing on a plywood stage with grocery store cashiers, car salesmen, and college students,” he said. “I was Willy Loman, desperately trying to hold on to a life that was coming unglued. That was my world and I totally believed it.”

  “I did, too,” Kate said.

  “I couldn’t ask for a better review,” he said, buttering the roll, “particularly from a Hollywood producer.”

  “We aren’t Hollywood producers,” Nick said.

  Boyd looked up from his buttering. “I thought you said you were producing a show in Los Angeles.”

  “We are, but it’s not like anything you’ve been involved with before,” Nick told him. “We are operatives with Intertect, a private security and detective agency, and we’re on the trail of an international fugitive who has stolen a great deal of money that we want to recover for our client.”

  “What do you need an actor for?”

  “To find this man we have to make one of his accomplices talk, and to do that we have to make him an actor in a play, only he’ll be the only one on the stage who doesn’t have a script.”

  “He won’t even know it’s a show,” Kate said.

  Boyd set his roll aside and took up a drumstick. “You’re talking about running a con.”

  “You’re very perceptive,” Nick said.

  “I did six weeks as Harold Hill in The Music Man at the Loon Lake Casino,” he said. “The thing is, cons are usually illegal.”

  “Think of this as an elaborate practical joke,” Nick said.

  “Exactly,” Kate said. “A practical joke that is sort of illegal but not entirely. We’ve been asked to do what the police can’t, and that’s catch a man who has robbed thousands of people out of their homes, their savings, and their retirements. We’re using kidnapping and fraud to accomplish that goal. If we don’t fool the mark, and he goes to the police, we could all get arrested.”

  “But it’s highly unlikely that he will,” Nick said.

  Boyd gnawed on his drumstick. “What’s in it for me?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars,” Nick said. “And the role of a lifetime, an acting challenge greater than any Oscar, Emmy, or Tony award winner has ever dared or attempted.”

  “Because the Oscar, Emmy, and Tony award winners don’t have to,” Boyd said.

  “But we both know that they wouldn’t because they don’t have the guts or the skills, and you will because you do,” Nick said. “And this will prove it.”

  Boyd sat back and looked at them. “And nobody will ever know.”

  “You will,” Nick said.

  “There won’t be any reviews, no film to put on my reel,” he said. “It won’t get me more work.”

  “It might from us,” Kate said.

  “But if I am not utterly convincing in my performance, or another actor lets me down, or a set falls, or some other calamity happens that I can’t act my way out of, I could get thrown in jail.”

  “Or worse,” Nick said, “you could spend another night performing here.”

  Boyd met his gaze. “How big is my trailer?”

  “You won’t have a trailer,” Nick said. “But you will have a mansion.”

  “I’m in,” Boyd said. “I don’t think I caught your last names.”

  “We’re on a first-name basis,” Nick said. “Last names are cumbersome.”

  Wilma Owens could drive, steer, or pilot just about anything that moved people from one point to another—cars, planes, boats, Zambonis, motorcycles, bulldozers, helicopters, steamrollers—with the possible exception of the Space Shuttle, not that she wasn’t game to give it a try. She’d grown up in Alvin, Texas, living in a double-wide next to her daddy’s auto body shop. She raced moto-cross and dirt track stock cars, and got a job straight out of high school driving a dump truck for Owens Excavating. Two years down the road she married the owner’s son, Buster Owens, and since they didn’t have any luck getting Wilma pregnant, she kept driving the dump truck. After twenty-six years of marriage and dump truck driving, Wilma divorced Buster, citing terminal boredom. She got a couple double-D implants that perked up her boobs, joined a spin class, and set out on what she’d named The Big Adventure.

  Nine years into The Big Adventure, Wilma was finding
it hard to get a job driving heavy equipment what with the economy in the toilet and her not belonging to a union. She’d had a short stint flying tourists over the Everglades until she crashed her plane in the swamp and it was discovered she wasn’t licensed to fly. Ditto the job she wrangled flying a helicopter, spraying toxic chemicals over mosquito-infested Port Charlotte.

  It was while Wilma was recovering from the helicopter crash that she got the idea to be a contestant on The Amazing Race. She figured she was a cinch to win, since she’d be good as new as soon as they took the pins out of her broken ankle. She’d win The Amazing Race, and she’d be rich and famous. She’d buy a sweet piece of land somewhere with her winnings, and maybe she’d buy a backhoe to drive around. And it might have happened too if Wilma hadn’t had a stroke of bad luck.

  Wilma and her best friend, Loretta Sue, were inches from making the last cut for The Amazing Race when it was discovered that Wilma had “borrowed” a freight train to make the tryouts on time when her Ford crapped out. Loretta Sue was let go on a technicality, being she wasn’t the one driving the borrowed train. Wilma was arraigned in Solano County court, where she was represented by a public defender. Bail was set at $35,000, but it might as well have been $350,000. There was no way Wilma could raise the cash, so she was remanded to a cell at the Solano County jail in Fairfield to await trial. It would be an enormous understatement to say that she was stunned when a deputy came to her cell, where she’d been sitting for six weeks, and told her that her bail had been posted and she was free to go.

  Two days before, Nick had been in Cape Girardeau. Now here he was on a bench outside Solano County’s Romanesque courthouse, which was set back from the palm-lined street behind a large crabgrass lawn. He watched Wilma walk out of the courthouse and knew he’d made a good choice. She’d be perfect for his purposes. She was another natural grifter. She was fearless. She had talent. She was desperate.