Page 14 of The Alibi Club

“It means these people have fuck-you money.” She paused for emphasis as her mouth turned into a flat line. “Like stupid money. Like ‘buy your way out of any kind of trouble even federal crimes’ money. I’ve been around rich people like this before. They think they’re untouchable. They build these mansions and live in neighborhoods where nothing bad ever happens, a perfect bubble beyond the ugliness of real life. So, they get careless, lulled into a false sense of security. They leave their alarm systems off on nights when they drink too much rare scotch and before you know it, a thief—like say,” she pointed her finger at him, “—you, comes along and—”

“Ex-thief,” Cliff interjected.

She let out a frustrated sigh and continued, “You can’t throw a blueberry scone without hitting some millionaire’s mansion around here. It’s catnip to a thief like you. How do you expect to control your impulses? Speaking of, I can’t even afford this rent. How can you?”

“I’m renting a little beach pad over a garage from Ernie Palau’s mom at a severely discounted rate.”

“The wheel man from the Encino bank job?”

“That’s the guy. With the bullet scar on his shoulder to prove it,” Cliff acknowledged with raised eyebrows. “I did Ernie a big favor in the joint. It’s his way of repaying me.” Cliff shrugged as if ex-cons luck into gorgeous little beach pads like this all the time, anything to minimize her suspicions. But he had his doubts if it was working. She was sharp.

Cliff decided to try honesty even though several million dollars’ worth of jewels were resting at his feet in a backpack and weighing on his toes as well as his conscience. He leaned in and spoke quietly. “You know Sig Johnson, the accountant for the Humboldt Cannabis mob? Nice guy. Nonviolent. He was a friend inside. I watched him take a shiv in the ribs the week before I got out because he was mistaken for Sid Hanson. The dumbshit punk who handled the hit got the wrong guy because their names were similar. Sig bled out. I watched the life drain out of his eyes; his blood was on my shoes for eight straight days until the day I got out.”

Cliff paused, remembering the terrified look in Sig’s eyes at the shock that he might be dying, not in the arms of his wife of twenty-eight years, but in the arms of a fellow convict on the dirty cement floor of the prison hallway. The terror turned to sorrow until his eyes were vacant, the life in them gone. It haunted Cliff. “I am not going back.” He sat back and took the last sip of his fancy coffee, tasted the nutmeg, and marveled yet again at the small joys of life on the outside. He had to change his thought channel before it threatened his own sanity. “Besides, I have a business plan.”

“Most parolees have trouble keeping a job, so this hits different.” Dez mulled it over then asked, “Go on, what is this business plan?”

“Services only a guy like me can provide, of course,” Cliff said as he handed her a stuffed file folder. “I’ve printed out my entire business plan for you to review and look over. I have my first client meeting today and an appointment with a bank manager tomorrow for a small business loan. With any luck at all, I should have a client by the next time I see you.”

“That is one week from now.” She leveled her gaze at him, her frown dripping with doubt. “Don’t make me regret taking you on. I have a perfect record in the department so far and a trip to Tahiti coming up in two months, so I will not have some master thief trying to outsmart me only to realize I am much smarter than he thinks I am.”

“Ex-thief,” Cliff said again, just as his phone lit up. The name that appeared on his phone was “MO.” Cliff quickly silenced the phone and turned it over.

“That wouldn’t be the notorious Melvyn Ott, would it?” Dez’s gaze hardened.

“No, no, not at all. That’s Mo Jeffers, bike repairman,” Cliff said, trying not to sound nervous. He had good reason to be nervous.

Melvyn Ott was part of Cliff’s old crew and still in prison. Cliff owed him a favor. A big one. He tried to push that last detail out of his mind and end this meeting with his parole officer before she handcuffed him for associating with known felons.

“Dez.” Cliff gave her a tight-lipped smile and stepped on the backpack chock-full of stolen gems. “You think I’d risk my new freedom for a scumbag like Melvyn Ott?”

“I’m just saying, temptation is everywhere. Especially when you’ve got the old crew sniffing around. For all I know, you’ve got stolen jewels in that backpack at your feet.” She sipped her coffee and stared at him over the foam.

Cliff froze. His chest went tight. He forced a smile, hoping it looked genuine. “Don’t be crazy.”

Distracted by a skinny cyclist who was bent over in front of their table to pick up his bike helmet, Dez scowled and said, “It’s easy to decide to go straight. It’s a whole other thing to stay that way.”

“Then let me prove it to you,” Cliff offered. “I have my first official business meeting in thirty minutes, where I will sign my first client, then it’s off to the legit biz races. I intend to make this stick.”

“Thieves make excellent liars. Goes with the con,” Dez said.

“Ex-thief,” he corrected again.

“I like you, Cliff.” She gave Cliff another good, hard look as she grabbed her purse and got up. “But I will bring you down if you con me. Same time, next week.”

“I’ll be here.” He gave her a wave meant to reassure her, but he noticed she looked anything but reassured. Dez walked out of the coffee shop.

His smiled faded as soon as his parole officer was out of sight. Cliff twirled the empty cup between his hands as he quietly surveyed the layout of the place. It was a reflexive habit, casing joints. He looked for the exits, noted the security cameras if any, and assessed all risks. The call from Mel Ott had jangled his nerves, but he was sure he could put him off a few days longer.

Cliff looked at his watch and went to grab the backpack resting at his feet. His hands fished around. It was gone. He looked under the table. Nothing but an empty straw wrapper. Panic rose and his eyes darted around the café, raking over the beach crowd expecting to find a rival thief scurrying off with his loot. Then he spotted the backpack in the jaws of a scruffy little brown dog trotting across the café. Cliff watched in mounting anxiety as the little dog stood there looking up at a gaggle of cyclists eating muffins, his backpack full of jewels dangling from its mouth.

Cliff launched from the chair, trying to keep his cool but nearly stumbling through milling patrons as he bolted over to retrieve the backpack. Just before he could get to it, two delicate hands picked it up.

His eyes were single-focused on the backpack, his fists clenched, and he was ready to use force if necessary to reclaim it even in the midst of this crowded, uppity café. His growing terror was instantly neutralized when he found himself staring into a pair of striking blue-green eyes framed by blond wavy hair that was tied in a messy bun. He stood facing an apologetic, warm smile from a strikingly pretty woman.

“I’m so sorry,” the woman said. “It was my dog. He’s not trained. But I suppose that’s on me. I haven’t trained him. Bad dog, Dash!” She admonished the pup and then hunched her shoulders and prattled on. “He dragged me in here since he smelled the fresh pastries—he can’t resist ham and cheese croissants—and he has a habit of stealing my backpack because I always have treats in it, again my mistake and—wow, this is heavy.” She held out the backpack so Cliff could take it. “Here you go.”

Cliff could feel himself frowning and sweating as he tried to get a grip on what had happened. An accident? He wasn’t sure. To an ex-con, everything seemed like a con. He was also mesmerized by the scent of peaches and honeysuckle. The two scents combined with her warm energy and dazzling smile served to jumble his brain.