Perfect Scoundrels

So Kat stepped away from the desk, walked to the far corner of the room, and studied not the carvings but the desk as a whole. It was gorgeous. At least three different kinds of wood had been used, and they blended together beautifully. Seamlessly. Alternating one with the next. It was almost like…

“A chessboard,” she whispered, the words only for herself.

Carefully, Kat circled the desk, eyeing it from every angle.

“Uh…” Hamish said through the comms unit. “You know how no one was supposed to realize who spilled the drink?”

“Yeah?” Gabrielle sounded worried, but Kat kept her gaze locked on the desk, walking around and around.

“I think they figured it out!” Angus yelled. “Run!”

Somewhere on the grounds of the Henley, the Bagshaws were making a break for it, but Kat never took her eyes off the desk.

There were so many intricate pieces. They had to fit together somehow, Kat was certain. She walked to the front of the desk again, pushed against one of the panels, but nothing moved. She repeated the gesture on every square, but they were all firm and solid. She was about to give up when her fingers traced over something that felt different.

Kat leaned down and shined her light onto the small square. The difference in the coloring was so minuscule, she doubted anyone would ever notice; but the feel was off, somehow. Kat took her fingernail and scraped against the priceless desk, and a small amount of a very soft substance rubbed away. Restorer’s putty, Kat knew. Something was there—some blemish or flaw that had been covered over within the past week.

Kat found that place, pressed again, twisted; and from somewhere deep inside the desk, she heard a tiny click.

“Hamish, don’t go down the alley!” Gabrielle yelled through her comms unit, but that wasn’t the reason Kat’s pulse was racing as she walked to the back of the desk, looking for any other moving pieces.

“Kat,” Simon said, but Kat barely heard him. She might have been looking at a desk, but what she saw were patterns and pictures, a map through the maze.

“Kat!” Simon shouted in her ear. She was about to lash out that she was busy when he whispered, “Hide.”

Before Kat could ask what he meant, there was a slice of light across the concrete, and Kat’s mouth went wide with shock. She darted from the desk, crouching low and diving behind the tall shelves that filled the center of the room. She felt her flashlight slip from her hand and go skidding across the concrete floor, but she couldn’t chase it. She could do nothing but stay low, hidden in the shadows, while three men walked toward her.

“There’s a light switch around here.… Yes. There,” a man said, and a moment later the overhead fluorescents flickered to life.

It took all of Kat’s willpower not to gasp when she heard a familiar voice saying, “Now, perhaps you can tell us what you meant—the Hale desk was involved in an accident?”

“Yes, Mr. Garrett. As I was trying to tell you earlier, it’s nothing, really. Our restoration department is the finest in the world, more than capable of mopping up a little spill. I assure you, Mr. Hale, you have nothing to worry about.”

Mr. Hale.

Kat peeked through the crack in the shelves, and what she saw was broad shoulders and a charismatic smile. But there was something infinitely sad about the boy in the very nice suit who stood with two men, staring down at the desk.

“I guarantee you…sir,” the stranger said, “your late grandfather’s desk is—”

“Grandmother’s.”

“Pardon?” the director asked.

“My great-great-great-grandfather purchased this desk, but it was my late grandmother who truly owned it.”

“I see,” the man said with a solemn nod.

“Where’s that artist, Duncan?” Garrett asked, and the director began to squirm.

“I’m sure she’ll be right along.”

“You’re the director of this facility. Go find her,” Garrett snapped.

“Of course, sir. Right away.”

Kat watched in silence as the man from the museum scurried through the swinging doors, leaving Hale and Garrett alone among the paint and the brushes.

“Why are we here?” Hale sounded like he was mid-con and playing a bored and elusive billionaire. Then Kat had to remind herself he wasn’t playing.

“I told you, Scooter. Hale Industries has a significant presence in Europe. It’s important for you to at least put in an appearance at the London headquarters.”

“No.” Hale took a deep breath. “Why are we here?” He held out his arms and gestured at the walls and shelves covered with priceless paintings and delicate sculptures. He sat on a workbench as the man looked down on him and gave a condescending smile.

“Well, it’s the finest museum in the world.”

“I know.”

“Oh, I know you do,” Garrett said, and for a split second, Kat wondered exactly what he was saying. She watched Hale, but the words didn’t seem to register with him.

“You’re an important man now, Scooter. You have responsibilities.”

“Isn’t that why I have you?”

“Well, yes.” Garrett laughed a little. “I guess it is.”

Hale stood and reached for the desk, ran his hand along the small section that Kat had been examining only moments before.

“What is it?” Garrett asked.

“I did that,” Hale said, pointing to the flaw that had been filled with putty.

“You carved into an original Petrovich?”

“Hazel told me to,” Hale countered. “I was…I don’t know…six or seven and she gave me a knife—told me that that was where H would mark the spot.”

For a moment, Hale’s trustee was quiet. Then he jerked his head toward the door. “Why don’t you go check on Duncan, Scooter? Make sure he brings that woman back. This is your grandmother’s desk. We can’t have it damaged further.”

When Hale left, Kat felt frozen, watching as Garrett walked around the desk, studying the ornate carvings. She couldn’t breathe as the man turned the piece of the desk where Hale had pointed. A small hidden drawer opened with an ominous pop. To Kat, it sounded like a bubble bursting as a narrow piece of molding slid away from the rest of the desk, and the man reached inside and pulled out a pile of papers held together by a single clip. Quickly, he slipped them into an interior pocket of his suit coat.

“He’s got it,” Kat said.

“What?” Gabrielle asked. “No, Angus, you need to get out of the garden! I’m sorry, Kat. What were you—”

“He’s got it. Garrett has the will.” The words were almost for herself, because, in that moment, the girl who always had a plan had absolutely no idea what to do. Options and alternatives swirled in her mind, but before she could do a single thing, Director Duncan appeared at the doorway, Hale at his side.

“She’s on her way, Mr. Garrett,” the director said, but Garrett no longer seemed interested.

Instead, he spoke directly to the boy. “Come, Scooter, we’ve seen enough. We’ll get out of your way, Mr. Duncan.”

“But…” The director seemed befuddled.

“You’re a busy man, and we’re jet-lagged. Come on, Scooter, let’s go.”

Two guards appeared and asked the director a question, so Kat kept herself pressed against the wall and whispered as loudly as she dared, “Gabrielle, Simon?”

“I’m here, Kat.” The voice was Nick’s.

“Garrett’s leaving with the real will. We’ve got to get it back. Now!”

Chapter 17

There are moments in any thief’s career that seem to last a lifetime—the second it takes for a guard to check a window, for the security camera to sweep. But the longest minute that Kat Bishop ever lived through was the one that came after she saw Hale and his trustee disappear through the door of the Henley’s restoration room. She could hear the museum director chatting with the guards on the other side of the shelves. Her crew was shouting out orders and questions, rapid-fire in her ear. But Kat could do nothing but stand and wait and listen.

“I have them at the north entrance,” Gabrielle said.

“Hamish, Angus, you clear?” Nick asked.

“As a bell, Nicky boy,” Hamish said.

“Kat, what are you going to do?” Simon asked. “Kat?”

The comms unit squeaked—an almost deafening sound—and Kat threw her hand to her ear, trying to keep it in.

“What was that?” a guard asked.

There were footsteps on the concrete, and Kat pressed herself more tightly against the shelves.

“There,” the director said. “Look at that.”

Kat held her breath. She closed her eyes.

“Just look at those rubbish bins. When was the last time they were emptied?” The director sounded mortified and ashamed. “You lads notify the janitorial staff. I want a full crew down here now.”

She heard the door open and close, and for a second, Kat was alone.

“Garrett,” Kat whispered. “Stick with Garrett. I’ll be right there.”

“Kat, no!” Nick shouted. “You can’t get out of there unseen until the morning. It’s too risky.”

But Kat just smiled. “I’ll see you soon.”

On the streets near the Henley that day, there were any number of odd things that could have easily been seen by anyone who cared to look.

First, there was a pair of ruddy-faced boys who were scaling the fence that surrounded the gardens. Two guards were in hot pursuit, but no one bothered to summon Scotland Yard or even the police. And once the boys had run into the nearest Tube station, the guards, huffing and puffing, gave up their chase and went back inside.

The second fairly strange thing was that a long black limousine was sitting at the opposite side of the building. It wasn’t parked. It did not circle. Instead, the car just idled by the main entrance as if, at any moment, a very well-financed thief was going to stroll out the front doors of the Henley and make an incredibly elegant escape. But anyone expecting that scenario would have been disappointed when a boy emerged through the Henley’s doors, an older man at his side.

The man hurried away from the museum, throwing cautious looks over his shoulder. But the boy walked into the fleeting sunlight as if there were no place on earth where he would not feel at ease.

The pair was almost to the limousine when the man said something, and a moment later, the boy climbed into the backseat alone. When the limo drove off, the man continued on foot, disappearing into the crowded streets. He seemed perfectly unaware when yet another boy emerged from the Henley’s doors with the last few straggling visitors of the day. This boy wore dark glasses and kept an even, steady pace, always fifty feet or so at the man’s back.

But the oddest sight of all came when the janitorial staff carried the day’s rubbish to the large bins in the back of the building. The men chatted as they dumped the cans into the massive dumpster, straining a bit under their weight before going back inside.