Loot

  “Good luck with that. She only cares about herself. That’s obvious.”

  They were quiet a moment, their heads back against the soft leather seats.

  “Well, if it doesn’t work, and we find ourselves in midair —” Jules sat up. “I’ll show you some grips. So you can hang on.”

  “Grips?”

  “Circus holds. Give me your hand. Here’s a C grip. Wrist to wrist. It’s a catch grip. Put your hands over my wrist, index finger like this, yes — so that you have wrist mobility. See?”

  March felt her pulse against his fingers. “Got it.”

  “Here’s the triangular locking grip. It’s the strongest, but it’s not a catch grip; it’s a hold grip. Here, put your fingers this way. That’s it. Feel how strong that is?”

  He looked down at their hands. For the first time, he noticed that the shape of their fingers were the same. A word floated into March’s head. Doo.

  “Doo,” he blurted. “That’s what I called you.”

  Jules frowned. Then a grin spread over her face. “Mo. That’s what I used to call you. I remember now…. I remember you.”

  “It’s not a memory, exactly …” March started.

  “… more like a dream that actually happened.” Jules looked down at their hands. “We used to hold hands …”

  “… all the time.”

  They raised their gripped hands in the air.

  “See?” Jules said. “We won’t let each other go. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  They crashed back into their seats.

  “Tell me about Blue,” March said.

  Jules turned and looked out the window.

  “What was it like?” he asked. “Growing up like that? It seems so free.”

  She twisted to face him. “What was it like, being the son of a thief?”

  “Lonely.” The word came out before he could stop it. The truth.

  Jules sighed. “You know what? If you’re a kid and your life isn’t normal — if you’re different or your family is or your life is — it’s just hard. Period.”

  “Most kids want to run away to the circus.”

  “It wasn’t a movie,” Jules said. “It was mud and calluses and being hungry and being afraid and running from police and having things be normal for five seconds before they weren’t anymore. It was about feeling dumb because you only go to school for a few months before you’re yanked out again. It was looking at other kids and wanting what they had.”

  “Life with Alfie wasn’t so easy. I was alone a lot. I was scared a lot that he wouldn’t come back.”

  “And then he didn’t.”

  “We could make it happen,” March said. “We could make everything stick. If we pull this off. We could make a home.”

  Jules was quiet for a moment. “Do you really think we can pull it off? I mean, never show fear or doubt, I get that, but … what do you really think?”

  “I really think … I don’t know,” March confessed. “Does that scare you? You’re the girl who won’t start something she can’t win, right?”

  “That used to be true.” Jules seemed to shrug off her mood like a coat she was tired of wearing. She grinned at him. “Before I realized how much fun it can be to try.”

  In San Francisco they took a cab to an exclusive neighborhood called Sea Cliff. Sprawling Spanish-style mansions with red-tile roofs and lush gardens overlooked amazing views of the blue bay, with the orange Golden Gate Bridge in the distance.

  “Whoa,” Izzy said. “This is one big bucket of heaven.”

  “This is a very white neighborhood,” Darius said nervously. “Maybe I should have dressed as a gardener.”

  “We’re okay,” March said. “Let’s just walk by the Pottage house and take a look. Izzy, fill us in on the details again.”

  “Blanche Pottage, socialite in San Francisco. Married, three kids, and her husband is a financial advisor. One of those ladies who is really, really busy and doesn’t do anything? The bad news is that there’s no record — no photo, no mention, zip — of a piece of jewelry with a moonstone in it. The good news is that she just did an interview for this feature called My Morning Routine on a society blog.”

  “Anything useful?”

  “Her trainer comes at seven a.m. She makes breakfast for her husband and kids, then walks her dog at eight thirty. She always goes alone — she calls it ‘me time.’ Barf.”

  “This is it,” March said, slowing down as they turned the corner.

  They all gulped when they saw the splendid, sprawling mansion. March followed the pitch of the roof, noted the two terraces, one probably outside the master bedroom. No bushes near the house, no good places to hide. In one window the unmistakable sign of a security company with codes and alarms. An invisible fence for the dog. An ornate iron gate across the driveway. Parked inside were a Mercedes convertible and an SUV.

  “It’s a freaking fortress,” Darius said.

  “Crackable,” March said. Because everything is, Alfie used to say.

  But he had no idea how to do it.

  The curtains were drawn back in a front room. From here March could see a peach silk sofa piled with pillows. On one wall was a huge painting with a gold-leaf frame. A vase was in the window, crammed with dozens of white roses.

  He thought of his father, who had a strange sense of honor about his targets. He had moved through the world of the wealthy but never been part of it. He stole from those who had been rich so long, they had forgotten ordinary cares. He stole from those who lived in houses like this, plump with silk cushions and bursting with too much of everything. He stole from those who wrecked the lives of others and dusted off their hands and said, “It’s business.” March had seen it again and again, in fancy restaurants and hotels, so often, he could smell it: the ease of privilege inherited and unearned.

  He was his father’s son, and he didn’t care that he was stealing something from a woman who would simply call her insurance broker in the morning and buy another gem by Tuesday. He was ready to go.

  “Duck!” Izzy said. “There she is!”

  “Izzy, chill,” Jules said. “She doesn’t know who we are.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Blanche Pottage came out the front door, a stocky woman in khaki pants and loafers. In her hand was a leash, and the leash was attached to a very small dog with hair the color of ginger ale. The dog kept yapping and jumping as Blanche tried to get her to quiet down. Her glance slid off them as if they didn’t matter: just some kids walking down the street. She made a left at the end of the driveway and then crossed the street.

  “Just. Keep. Walking,” March said.

  They kept on the opposite side of the street as she tugged on the leash. “Behave yourself, Gigi-poo!” she scolded. “Remember, I’m in charge!”

  “Did she just say Gigi-poo?” Jules asked.

  “Is that a dog or a rat with a wig?” Darius asked.

  They followed her up a pretty winding road lined with cypress trees that cut through the park. On one side was a golf course. The lawn ended, and the expanse of blue bay and golden hills hit their eyes. A plume of fog lay lightly on the water, but the sun shone.

  Cyclists and other dog walkers and runners were out enjoying the morning, and the gang wasn’t as worried at being spotted. They moved closer.

  “Mommy brought you to your favorite place! Don’t you love Mommy?”

  The dog yapped and ran in circles.

  “Silly you,” Blanche said. “Come on, let’s find our bench.”

  “Is she wearing the moonstone?” Jules asked.

  “I don’t think so,” March said.

  She walked a little way and chose a bench under a tree with a view of the bay. Blanche took a handkerchief out of her pocket and dusted off the bench. Then she sat down, and the dog yapped at her ankles, then nosed her way to the trunk of the tree.

  “Don’t take too long, Gigi-poo, I have a busy day!”

  March snapped a picture with his
camera phone. He got an uneasy feeling as he pinched and zoomed on the photo.

  He handed his phone to the others.

  “Yeah, I know,” Darius said. “It’s not a rat; it’s a dog.”

  “Look again. At the collar.”

  Jules leaned over to peer at the phone. “You’ve got to be kidding me. The dog has the moonstone?”

  “Oh no, bro.” Darius backed up a step. “I’m not messing with a dog.”

  Jules grinned. “It’s not a Doberman; it’s a Maltese. It’s the size of your pinky, D.”

  “You take one look at that dog, you know that dog is mean.”

  “He’s afraid of ’em,” Izzy said.

  “Am not. Just don’t like them.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The question is, how do we get the collar? She doesn’t let Gigi out of her sight.” March kept his eyes on Blanche and the dog.

  “House was protected by an invisible fence,” Jules said. “So we can’t lure her out of the yard. We were going to break in anyway. What’s the difference?”

  “The difference is, it’s on a dog.” Frustrated, March leaned against a tree. The air smelled so good here, cool and spicy. He didn’t know the names of the trees, and he didn’t recognize the flowers. Yet this place reminded him of another city. Every time he reached for the memory, it danced out of reach.

  “Why would somebody put an expensive jewel on a dog collar?” Izzy asked.

  “Because she’s an idiot,” Jules said. “What about the Wet Paint? What was Alfie planning?”

  “I don’t know,” March said. “I’m thinking he knew her routine, he knew the bench, and he’d planned to somehow get her to another spot, someplace easier for the getaway, maybe. But I don’t know if he knew that Gigi the dog had the moonstone.” He felt frustration build. He couldn’t figure it out.

  “If she walks the dog at the same time every day, we could just grab the dog,” Jules said. “How hard could it be? Take off the collar, give her back the pooch.”

  “Look at all these witnesses,” March said. “There’s cops on bikes and people everywhere.”

  “Maybe we could stage a mugging and save her,” Izzy said.

  Everyone looked at Darius. He stepped back.

  “So you all look at the dark guy? No way. I’m not conforming to racial stereotypes. Been there, done that with the pigeon drop.”

  “We’re not thugs. We’re jewel thieves. But we’ve got to figure it out, and do it tomorrow morning. Oscar’s plane gets in at eleven a.m.” March tilted his head back and looked up at the tree, then out at the landscape. Fog was starting to drift in over the bay. Birds wheeled overhead, diving and circling. He almost got clobbered by bird droppings as they flew by.

  Lisbon, March thought. This place reminds me of Lisbon. When that pack of kids squirted mustard on Alfie’s back, and then cleaned him up and tried to lift his wallet. He laughed and tossed them some cash. “Easier just to ask, pequeninos!”

  He smiled.

  “Uh-oh,” Darius said. “Dude has got a plan.”

  That night, as he drifted off in the Grimstone private plane at the airport, hoping for no nightmares, March heard the buzz of a text. He picked up the phone. It was from Mike Shannon.

  Good luck.

  He turned off the phone. The gang had decided to ignore Mike Shannon for now. If they collected the moonstones, they’d deal with him.

  The next morning they all dressed in their navy blazers and white shirts. They combed their hair and dusted off their sneakers.

  “Where are we from?”

  “Chicago,” Darius said.

  “Who makes the approach?”

  “Izzy.”

  “Jules? Got the mustard?”

  She held up a tube.

  “Ew,” Izzy said. “We really made it look gross.”

  Jules grinned and tucked it into her pocket.

  “And the signal is?”

  “ ‘Such a lovely day,’ ” Jules repeated.

  “Everybody ready? Okay. Now let’s go get ourselves a moonstone.”

  * * *

  Izzy was the lookout. As soon as she saw Blanche leave the house with Gigi, she streaked across the park and signaled them. Jules jumped from the bench and caught the lowest branch of the tree, then swung herself up and concealed herself in the branches.

  Izzy calmed her breath, smoothed her pigtails, and went to sit beside March and Darius.

  In just a few minutes they saw Blanche in the distance with the scampering dog. When she saw them sitting on the bench, her mouth tightened.

  “Go,” March said out of the side of his mouth to Izzy.

  “Oh, what an adorable doggie!” Izzy said, springing up and crouching near Gigi. “Can I pet her?”

  Blanche’s smile was strained. “She doesn’t like people.”

  “All dogs like me,” Izzy said. She reached out her hand. Gigi licked it, then snuggled closer to Izzy’s ankles.

  Blanche tugged at the leash. “Gigi!”

  “No, it’s okay. Look, she likes me.” Izzy held out her hand again.

  Every time Izzy put her hand in her pocket, she came out with a little smear of peanut butter. Gigi licked her, her tail wagging crazily.

  March popped up. “Oh gosh, we’re on your bench, aren’t we? Have a seat.” He slicked back his hair and smiled in what he hoped was a winning way. “I’m Arthur Fairchild, and this is Harry Windsor.”

  If you want to reassure a rich mark, just name yourself after a British king. Works every time.

  “I’m Elizabeth Middleton,” Izzy said.

  “We’re visiting from Chicago. We go to the Dunnington Academy. Wow, this is an amazing city.”

  “You’re lucky to live here, ma’am.” Darius slid over, leaving room for Blanche. “That’s what we were just saying.”

  Blanche had hesitated, but the combination of blue blazers, a private school, and the earnest smiles of the group encouraged her to park herself at the end of the bench. She kept a good distance from them, but she sat.

  Exactly where they wanted her to. Under the tree.

  “Such a lovely day,” March said.

  Suddenly a plop of bird poop landed on Blanche’s creased khaki trousers. “Oh!” she cried.

  Another plop, this time on her starched white blouse.

  “Oh, OH! Ewwwww!”

  One enormous plop on the end of her long, pointed nose.

  “NO!”

  And one last plop on Gigi’s groomed blond fur.

  “NO, NO, NO!” screeched Blanche.

  The three — March, Darius, and Izzy — all sprang forward.

  “Harry, old chum, do you have those wet wipes? Let us help you, ma’am.”

  “Here.” Darius tossed wet wipes and tissues in Blanche’s lap.

  “I have a water bottle….” March handed it to Blanche, who was picking up the tissues.

  Fumbling, she dropped the leash.

  “GIGI!”

  “Don’t worry. I have your dog,” Izzy assured her. “And I’ll wipe that nasty poop off, too. Bad birds!” she said to the sky.

  “Can we escort you somewhere, ma’am?” March asked. “You seem so upset….”

  “I just want to get home,” Blanche said. “Oh, what a mess!”

  “Look,” March said. “There’s a cab!”

  It could have been a stroke of luck, but it wasn’t. He’d already paid the cabbie.

  “Perfect.”

  Izzy thrust Gigi into Blanche’s arms, along with handfuls of tissues. Darius handed her the water bottle. March helped her into the cab.

  “Don’t forget your purse!” Izzy said, shoving it on top of the pile of dog, tissues, water, and wet wipes.

  They shut the door, the cab roared off, and Jules dropped out of the tree. They all jogged away, hearts pumping, and cut through the park. When they reached the museum, they hailed another cab and tumbled in, breathless.

  “To the airport,” March said.

  Izzy tossed him the collar.
He held it up.

  The moonstone glowed.

  They crashed back against the seats, giggling like two-year-olds in a sandbox full of Jell-O.

  “Two more to go,” March said.

  The exhilaration wore off after the toast on the plane — “To Gigi-poo!”

  They had two more moonstones to get, and they knew where only one of them was. The blue moon was Friday. Only three days left.

  Izzy briefed them on the plane. “Renee Cass Rooter. Super-duper rich. Former model who married a bazillionaire tycoon five years ago. Spent two million on the happily-ever-after wedding. Except they divorced last year.”

  “Boo hoodle, did they have to take a buzzsaw to the Ferrari?” Darius asked.

  “He got the thirty-million-dollar apartment on Park Avenue; she got the mansion in Connecticut.”

  “Moonstone?” Jules asked.

  “A ring. Plenty of photos on the Internet of her wearing it.”

  March looked at the photo. “Anybody else in the house?”

  Izzy leaned forward over the tablet, squinting. “Oh no!”

  “What?”

  “Apparently Renee decided the memories of her marriage were too painful. So she sold all of the jewelry he’d given her at auction.”

  March had a sinking feeling. “When?”

  Her gaze was bleak. “Yesterday.”

  “And the buyer of the moonstone ring?”

  Izzy shook her head. “Anonymous,” she said.

  * * *

  Help me, Alfie. Before the plane touches down, I need a plan, because we have to hit the ground running.

  Izzy could not penetrate the auction house’s records. “This kind of security, I can’t crack,” she said. “I’d ask my dad, but last I heard, he was in Peru.”

  “Too bad mine left the CIA after he bought that island in the South Pacific,” Darius said.

  “Could we break into the auction house?” Jules asked. “Get Izzy to a terminal somehow?”

  March frowned. “There’s high security in the big auction houses. Cameras. Security guards. ID check-ins. Plus they have a photo ID lockout list — they have a file on every known jewel thief. It was hard for Alfie to get in without a disguise.” March sat up. “Disguise!” he exclaimed, slapping his pockets. He dug out his phone. “Yes! It’s FX! He finally answered!”