Once upon a time, I aspired to this kind of “effortless” perfection.It’s expensive. A man who smuggles priceless artifacts could certainly afford it. If this is his lifestyle, I can understand how he drew a young woman like Violet in.
I watch him now, nuzzling the woman’s neck and wonder if she knows how he makes his money.
I take as many pictures of her as I do of him so I can run a reverse image search on her later.
I wait for them to reach the exit before I head into the stairwell.
I run up the four flights of stairs on pure adrenaline.
There’s no one in the hallway when I reach his floor, and his is one of only two units on this level.
The key card works without a hitch and I slip inside in seconds.
I found the floor plan for this unit on the property management website and make my way to the small staff suite in the back. I wish I could take my time, because no matter who it belongs to, I love exploring other people’s houses. Especially when it’s someone like him.
The bedroom that is supposed to be hers appears to be unoccupied. The mattress is bare and there’s nothing in the closet or any of the drawers. If Violet’s things were here when she left, they’re not now.
I walk into the living room and turn in a small circle to see what I can rifle through without leaving any sign I’d been there.
There’s a stack of papers and mail strewn haphazardly on the dining table.
It’s a stack of pictures printed on legal paper. Stapled together in pairs of two. I pick them up and freeze. The picture on top is of an ivory bangle I would recognize anywhere. It’s one of the artifacts that was stolen while I was still in New York. This, along with the photo that matches the one in their files, should be enough.
Behind it is a picture of woman I don’t recognize wearing the same bangle. Her arm is held up, her expression blank—it looks like a high-end mug shot.
There’s an eight-digit code and date on the back.
I pull out my phone and take pictures of everything in the pile. I browse through the stack of mail on the table.
The name Ozwald Annan is on everything.
Oz.
I laugh at the lack of creativity in choosing his villain name. Maybe he’s not as clever as his ability to evade the authorities suggests.
I flip over a heavy card-stock envelope on top. The Museum of African Art’s logo is stamped on the back. I open it and pull out the cardinside. It’s an invitation to an event this week. I can’t believe my luck. I take a picture of it and put it back exactly as I found it. Then I get the hell out of there.
On my way down the stairs, I text Leon to tell him I think his hunch was right.
Then, I text Violet to let her know I didn’t find anything. I hate that I’m walking away with something for myself and nothing for her but as I review the photos I took, I’m nearly overwhelmed with excitement. I need to verify these pictures are indeed what they appear to be.
The fire department is just starting the building sweep when I come out of the stairwell in the lobby.
I fall into step with the flow of people exiting the building. I blend in seamlessly, moving slowly but purposefully until I’m past the throng of anxious residents clustered near the entrance.
The breath I’m holding bursts out of me in a laugh. I’d forgotten how exhilarating this part of my job was. How much I loved being one step ahead and downwind from the scent of my prey. I’ve got a lot of work to do but maybe this story has legs again.
I slip my phone into my back pocket and sprint toward the crosswalk to catch the last six seconds on the walk signal.
I’m almost there when I hear it. “Sin?”
Like a deer who hears the click of the rifle’s hammer, I freeze.
It sounds like Kwame.
I must be hearing things.
I hear my name again.
