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I tore my eyes off her back and shook myself. “Thanks,” I said. I zipped up my jacket and took a deep breath. I let it out, wrapped the paintings in the sheet, and left. I really did have to work tonight, and it was not going to be easy.
CHAPTER
11
Actually, the first part was easy. The alarm system was an old friend. I’d dealt with a dozen just like it. Two dozen. It was ancient technology. Even being careful, watching for some improvement I wasn’t expecting, it took me only a couple of minutes.
It was almost sad. I mean, it’s amazing that people who have plenty of money and plenty of reason to lock up carefully—these are the people who scrimp on security. Maybe they had great insurance. For their sake, I hoped so.
It was a simple, no-sweat climb up to the roof, too. The only part that was even close to hard was that I had to do it twice. The paintings were too big and awkward to carry them both up at the same time. Aside from that, simple.
And then the alarm. There were two sensors touching each other at each door and window, and if they came apart—if the door or window was opened—it set off the alarm. Primitive. Only a little better than balancing a tin can full of rocks on the doorframe. I could’ve gotten through the sensors blindfolded.
I didn’t. In fact, I took it nice and slow, watching for something unexpected. I had learned the hard way that when everything is sliding along slick as owl shit on a river rock, something bad is probably coming along to make up for it. Riley’s Fifth Law: If you think it’s easy, you’re missing something. Superstitious, maybe, but I feel like you always end up paying for “easy.”
So I kept both eyes open. I went all the way around the roof a couple of times, looking for anything I might have missed—cameras, sensors, a neighbor watching from a window. I scanned all the nearby buildings, too, and the street below. Nothing; it really was as uncomplicated as it looked. Unusual, but not impossible. I shrugged off the antsy feeling and went to work.
I took my time. The skylight was set into a metal frame. That makes people think, Wow, metal, it’s secure. Except—guess what? It isn’t secure at all. Because the frame holding the glass pane is held by ten screws. And the genius who installed this thing left the screw heads exposed. All I needed was my battery-powered reversible drill and a small Phillips-head bit. Five minutes, even taking it slow, carefully undoing each screw and laying it on a piece of tape so it wouldn’t roll away and get lost. Slow and steady and simple. None of the screw heads was even stripped.
Then I was just as careful lifting off the cover to the skylight. I set it carefully to one side and then took out my coil of nylon cord. I tied off the roof end of the rope on a big sturdy stanchion. Then I dropped the loose end through the place where the skylight had been and slid down with the first picture under my arm.
It only took a couple of minutes to shimmy back up and bring down the second canvas. And then I went to the inside vault. The alarm and lock on the vault were about on par with the outside alarm system. I disabled the alarm with a piece of tinfoil. The lock on the vault was an old tumbler type and much harder. I put my stethoscope on it, and it took almost thirty whole seconds to open it. I put Monique’s pictures inside, took out the two they replaced, and reversed the whole process. Lock the vault, climb back to the roof, reseat the skylight, and rearm the alarm.
I wrapped the two pictures carefully, then slid to the ground in the alley beside the building. I’d parked a van there. It read “NIGHT WATCHMAN SECURITY SYSTEMS” on the sides. I slipped the pictures inside, padded them carefully, and climbed into the driver’s seat. And then away into the night, happy it had all gone right. I took it as a good sign. If the whole thing went this well—
I know. A really big if. But so far, a piece of cake. A really good start, and that was something. I mean, I knew it wouldn’t last. In a way, I didn’t want it to. I wanted a challenge and the feeling that I was doing something impossible. Because I was. But so far, it was pretty standard stuff. It would stay standard for one more day, nothing really out of the ordinary.
But after tomorrow? I just might find myself wishing for something this simple again.
* * *
—
The life of a top-end decorator is hard. It’s a fight for many long years to reach the top, and when you make it—if you make it—it’s a much harder fight to stay there. But Irene Caldwell was a fighter, and a good decorator, and she’d made it to the top of the list in the tristate area by outworking the competition, offering the best at a fair price. Her knowledge of the latest designers, furniture, and modern art was second to none, and she always found a way to please her clients while still nudging them toward wonderfully good taste. She had worked her ass off to get where she was—
But there were times when she wondered if it was worth it.
Like this morning: Her train had been delayed, and then it came to a dead stop between stations, where it sat for thirty-eight minutes while the rush hour crowd, already jammed in elbow to elbow, stood helplessly in growing pools of their own sweat. And of course there was absolutely no cell phone service in this particular spot, so Irene could not even call her morning appointments to tell them she was delayed. When the train finally got moving again, she was already an hour behind schedule, and that made her furious. Irene was a bit of a control freak, which was probably part of the personality that made her so good at what she did, and to be stuck like that, completely helpless, was intolerable. In addition, she demanded punctuality from herself and detested tardiness in others, and here she was an hour late before she had even really started her day.
Irene practically ran when the train finally disgorged its load of fuming passengers. Once on the sidewalk, she had at least managed to call and let her first appointment know she would be late, but apologizing just made her angrier, and by the time she got to her SoHo studio, she was ready to peel the skin off anybody who crossed her path. She clicked off her studio’s alarm, tapping her foot impatiently. It always took a few seconds for the whole system to turn off—it was a very good alarm system, necessary since Irene quite often kept some very pricey artwork in her vault—which had a separate alarm of its own, of course.
The light on her alarm clicker finally blinked green, and Irene unlocked her front door and hurried into the vault. She had to pass her work area, where the large wall clock told her she was now an hour and three minutes late. “Damn, damn, damn,” she said. She shut down the vault’s alarm and hurriedly grabbed the painting she was going to deliver this morning, a wonderful Jasper Johns. She’d gotten it for a decent price and made a nice little profit when she passed it on to her client. She felt absolutely no guilt about that; her client was Elmore Fitch, a crusty, bad-tempered billionaire who gave lavishly to White Nationalist causes. He had basically chosen the picture because the artist was white and famous, and because the colors matched his couch. Irene found a small satisfaction in a little extra pinch when the client was such a Philistine. Ars longa, assholes brevis, she told herself.
Irene took the painting out to her worktable and laid it down carefully, looking at it with love. Gorgeous. As always, Irene was thrilled just to be in the presence of such a great work. My God, this was a superb picture—but did the colors seem a little brighter and fresher this morning? She frowned briefly, running her eyes up and down the canvas. Nothing had changed—it was probably just a trick of the lighting. Sometimes the morning light, coming through the skylight, made everything seem brighter. And paintings did not refresh themselves sitting in a vault overnight. Irene just looked for a moment longer, letting the painting set her off into a small, idyllic daydream.
Someday, she would have a Jasper Johns of her own. And maybe a Rauschenberg, like the one in her vault that she would deliver tomorrow. Someday—
Her wall clock ticked loudly, snapping Irene out of her brief reverie. An hour and five minutes late now. “Goddamn it,” she said. She wrapped the painting carefully and then hurried out the door to make the delivery.
* * *
—
Fall was finally here, and it was one of those days that makes you want to stay in Manhattan and live forever. The sun was shining, the air was so crisp and clean you could take a deep breath and not cough—even in Times Square. And although it wasn’t so cool I needed a coat, you could tell that kind of cool was coming and pretty soon I’d need a whole lot more than an old Yankees jacket. But for now, it was perfect. The kind of day when even hard-ass New Yorkers smile a little as they walk through the streets.
And they were walking. Everybody walks in New York, but on a day like this one they actually seemed to like doing it. Weather like this yelled at the locals that you better get your ass outside and enjoy it while you can, because winter is coming and it will be a bitch this year.
I walked for a while, too. And I took it kind of slow. Hell, I’m not immune to feeling good now and then, even when I’m working. Which I was. I wasn’t forgetting that or neglecting something connected to this job. Like I said, Riley’s First Law: The job comes first. But it wasn’t going to affect anything at all if I took two extra minutes and chilled in the fall’s first great day. And as soon as I got my fill of strolling along with my hands in my pockets and started to feel guilty, I ducked into an alley like Spider-Man changing into his costume. I didn’t change. But I did zip up to the rooftops.
