A duffel sits by the door to the observation room. That’s the bag Kate brought, the one with her toothbrush and clothes. I’ll take it with me when I leave.
A plastic sign leans against the wall: Mid-Atlantic Joint Task Force for the Interception and Interdiction of Organized Crime. Three framed photos of our political leaders splay by its feet.
“Dammit,” Megan says. “We should have left at least one of the computers functional.”
I cross the echoing room. “That sounds like something I can help with.”
“I’m trying to transfer money from our operating account to pay the movers.”
“Here,” I say, pulling up login information on my phone. “Use this one instead.”
She squints. “Banque Wagner?”
“It’s Tarasov’s money. I’m parking it there overnight.” I watch her type in the password. “That’s aone,” I correct. “Not anel.”
She gives me a lopsided grin. “I’ve never been good with money.”
“That isn’t money. It’s typing.”
“I’ve never been good at that either. If you learn to type…” Megan’s sing-song tone delivers some of Shannon’s favorite words of wisdom.
“You’ll spend the rest of your life as a secretary.” I finish the familiar quotation. “We don’t have secretaries anymore. They’re all executive assistants.”
Megan shoves her phone at me. “Assist this,” she says. “Pay out for the team. One hundred grand for everyone, plus a ten-thousand-dollar tip.”
I raise my eyebrows. We’d talked about hiring each person for ten grand a day. But given how well the con worked, I can hardly argue. Plus, not a penny is coming out of my pocket.
As I start to manage the transfers, Megan turns to the uniformed crew of movers breaking down the cubicle walls. “Let’s go, guys. All of this needs to be on the freight elevator five minutes ago. We lose the loading dock in half an hour.”
The men grumble, but they pick up their pace.
Nutmeg missed her calling. She could have been a project manager at any tech giant in the country. But she might have to lose her emerald hair.
Scarcely thirty minutes later, everything is accounted for. Every member of our grifter team has been handsomely paid. Hard surfaces are wiped down with bleach. Every scrap that can be removed from the office suite is destined for an industrial incinerator.
The last thing the movers collect is the sign. Megan cocks her head for one last look at the red-and-blue lettering. “Are you sure you don’t want to hang that somewhere back home?” she asks.
“It would fit right in, between the Matisse and the Cezanne.”
Still, she eyes it. “I’d take it,” she says. “If I had a wall big enough.” She tilts her head. “If I had a house with walls.” She takes a step back. “If I had the first clue about where I’ll be living next week. Next month. Next year.”
She waves a hand, sending the sign downstairs to the van.
“So,” she says.
“So,” I answer.
She looks around the empty room before she says, “Mama always said the number one thing that makes a good con great is shutting down the operation.”
“No,” I say. “Mama always said the number one thing is having a partner you can trust.”
Megan’s eyes are piercing. “I’ve never heard you call her that before.”
I barely lift one shoulder in a shrug before I grab my phone. “Three-way split on the rest of the take from Tarasov?” I ask. “You, Kate, and me?”
“What does that come to?”
“Thirty-three million each, give or take.”
