Thief for Hire Read online

  Molly Miranda: Thief for Hire

  By Jillianne Hamilton

  © 2015 Jillianne Hamilton. All rights reserved.

  Jillianne-Hamilton.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9939870-0-7

  ASIN: B00QUE81EM

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  For Colby. You are amazing.

  For my parents, Mike and Kim, for putting up with me and doing so much for me.

  Thanks to Grandma Patsy for always being my #1 fan.

  Thanks to Smith Family Farms for their incredible generosity and support.

  And to you, the reader. Thanks a bunch! If you enjoy this read, please consider leaving a review on Amazon and telling your friends. It would help me a lot. Thanks!

  CHAPTER ONE

  I kept my back to the wall, making sure my whole form was in the shadows. A museum employee switched a light on in the next room and rummaged in a metal locker.

  What the hell are you even doing back here? Can’t you see I’m working?

  I forced myself to stay absolutely still and take short, silent breaths. Moisture gathered in my leather gloves. So gross.

  Waiting until after the assignment to eat supper was a stupid choice. I’m hungry. If my stomach grumbles, I’m finished.

  The employee in the next room started humming and my heart rate slowed slightly. Generally, people who hum don’t suspect a professional thief is in the next room.

  Why is this wig so damn itchy? I can’t scratch my neck right now. Must. Not. Scratch. What are you doing in there anyway? Go the fuck home already.

  I was in the room next to the locker room—an examination room where curators might inspect and prepare items before putting them on display to the public. Glassed-in cabinets lined the walls and two long tables stood in the middle. I just hoped she didn’t need anything in one of those cabinets or she’d see me for sure.

  The locker door shut with a clang and I heard the employee zip up her jacket. Only a wall stood between us. My throat was dry but I couldn’t clear it.

  Instead of leaving, the employee moved to the exam room doorway, ten feet away from my hiding spot in the corner. I watched her and held my breath.

  I readied myself to make a run for it. But where? She’d see me, scream and then call the fuzz.

  This assignment offered a substantial payday but it wasn’t worth getting caught and going to prison for.

  She faced straight ahead to one of the windows across the room. Raindrops made a clink, clink sound as they hit the old, thick glass. The glow from outside filtered in through that window, stretching across the floor and ending in a pool of light a few inches in front of my sneakers. The employee yawned, stretching her arms over her head. I stayed frozen.

  And that’s when I heard it.

  “Boom, girl! I like it when yo booty go ooh, ooh, ooh! I wanna slap dat ass, ‘cuz you know I like it, girl. Ooh, ooh, ooh—”

  She fished her phone from her pocket and went back to the other room.

  “Yeah, hi,” she said. “I’ll be right there. I left my iPod at work. Cool. Bye.”

  She rushed out, the heavy security door shutting behind her.

  I rested my head against the wall behind me, my chest heaving with every loud breath. That was close. Too close.

  Having as much information as possible is key when going into an assignment. For instance, I knew this museum had security cameras lining the front and in every room the public can visit. The “Employees Only” areas—like the examination room, the staff room and the basement—were camera-free. The museum also didn’t have a single security guard—not uncommon for a museum this size.

  I slid out from the shadows and approached the thick metal door at the other end of the room. A panel of numbers was mounted on the wall beside the door.

  No one had said anything about a number panel.

  I’d seen these security panels before, usually in smaller museums like this one that couldn’t afford a full state-of-the-art system. They usually required a four-digit code, and every employee would use the same one. But I didn’t know what that might be.

  I shrugged and punched in 1, 2, 3 and 4. It beeped, a green light blinked and the door unlocked. I smiled.

  People and their passwords.

  I turned on my mini flashlight and slowly made my way downstairs. The basement walls were made of old brick, dotted by dark stains where water had leaked in over the years. Dusty crates and boxes were piled in the corners, and four rows of metal lockers stood in the middle of the room. Each locker was labeled with an ID number on a small metal plaque, a tiny keyhole below it. I aimed my flashlight at the lockers, eventually finding #38.

  I got my kit from one of my inside coat pockets and kneeled down, holding my flashlight in my teeth and aiming it towards the keyhole. I inserted my tension wrench and then went to work with my pick, listening carefully for clicks.

  Some thieves would choose not to pick the lock, instead just breaking into the locker by destroying the door completely. But then the item inside might get damaged. Even worse, someone would realize the locker had been broken into and evidence might be found easier. But if I picked the lock and then shut the door again, the missing item might not be noticed for weeks or months.

  After a few minutes of wiggling the pick in the lock, I heard the final click and pulled the door open.

  A plastic bag with a faded blue ribbon lay inside. Specks of dust swirled in the locker around it, dancing in the glow from my flashlight. I put my tools away and carefully slid the bag out of the locker. A card was attached.

  #7844 - circa 1780

  I raised my eyebrows. The ribbon was tied into a bow and looked like it might turn into a small pile of blue dust at any moment.

  I surveyed the other lockers. They certainly held similar treasures and would have similar locks. I could’ve easily taken a few more items and then fenced them once I was back in the United States.

  Don’t be stupid. That’s how people get caught—by getting greedy.

  I tucked the bag carefully into my jacket pocket and shut the door. Quickly and quietly, I made my exit from the museum.

  * * *

  I met with Audrey at a café in Chelsea. As usual, she was there before me, typing away on her iPhone. She nodded as I sat down across from her.

  This place had to be the whitest place in London. Milk-white walls, wooden tables and chairs painted white, and a white wooden counter. Even the pastries were limited to vanilla, almond and coconut. Plus, all of its patrons appeared to be rich white women sipping tea from white china cups. I bet all hell would break loose if someone ever spilled a glass of bright red cranberry juice in here.

  Audrey blended into her surroundings like a chameleon. Her crisp white blouse and black high-waisted pencil skirt reeked of designer. Her black Chanel bag sat on the third chair, like it too was taking part in this meeting.

  She glanced at my outfit. Audrey had specifically told me not to wear denim or leather pants whenever we met. Like I even own leather pants!

  While Audrey’s blonde hair was sleek and pulled back into a low ponytail, my short platinum blonde hair was a matted mess under my wig. I’d plastered on some eyeshadow that morning but probably looked more like a kid playing with her mom’s makeup than a young lady who belonged in a café like this one.

  A waitress came by a
nd slid a tiny teacup onto our table. I smiled at her while Audrey kept typing away on her phone. I bet she paid more for the case on her phone than most people pay for two weeks of groceries. She eventually put it away and took a quick glance at the smudge of mud on the hem of my jeans. Her nose twitched.

  “Good morning, Betty.” She didn’t smile as she spoke. “Lovely to see you.”

  That’s me. I’m Betty—at work, anyway.

  Audrey has one of those British accents that says, “I’m educated and I come from old money. How do you do? Please don’t touch the furniture. It’s not meant for sitting upon.” I assume her father is Something Something Something the Third. It’s also hard to tell when she is being sarcastic and when she’s serious. I actually know very little about Audrey. I’m almost certain “Audrey” isn’t her real name, though, just like “Betty” isn’t mine.

  She glanced at my purse as I placed it beside her Chanel bag. She twitched as the two bags touched, like hers might catch herpes or something from mine.

  “I take it everything went as planned.”

  I shrugged. “It was fine.” In a single motion, I moved the plastic-encased ribbon from my bag to hers. “Seems like a lot of work for a stupid little—”

  Audrey shot me a look then glanced around carefully. “Georgiana Cavendish,” she said, almost whispering. “It was a bracelet that actually belonged to her.”

  I’d never seen her impressed with anything, especially something like an old ribbon that belonged to a dead lady. Maybe Audrey was the client on this one and not just the middleman—or, rather, middlewoman.

  “Of course. It’s quite an item. Who wouldn’t want something like that?” I smiled.

  The name sounded only vaguely familiar. I made a mental note to Google it later.

  I think she might be a pro tennis player. British people love tennis, right?

  I eyed the treats behind the glass counter. “Are the pastries any good?”

  Audrey’s lips tightened. “I don’t eat sweets.” She lifted her tea to her lips and gingerly took a dainty sip without making any audible slurping noise. “And neither should you. I don’t employ fat people.”

  I sat back in my chair and looked around the café. None of the other patrons were partaking of the pastries. No cheesecake, no cupcakes, no cookies, no nothing.

  What is wrong with all these people?

  Audrey stood up. “You’ll hear from me soon. Ciao.”

  I lifted my hand to wave back but she was already out the door.

  The waitress at the next table blinked dumbly, looking from the door to me. “She didn’t pay for her tea. Can I bring you the bill?”

  That sneaky bitch.

  “Not yet,” I mumbled. “Can you bring me the biggest piece of cheesecake you have?”

  * * *

  Later that day, ten thousand British pounds were sent to my offshore bank account. I was at Heathrow waiting for my flight home when I got the email notifying me of the transaction.

  Airports seem to be the bane of my existence. I visit them frequently and despise them. The waiting. The sitting. The other travelers.

  Out of boredom, I took out my phone and Googled the name Audrey mentioned—Georgiana Cavendish of … something.

  Duchess of Devonshire. Fashionista of the 18th century.

  All of the portraits online depicted her as a beautiful lady with a tall mountain of curls on her head. Her elaborate costumes were covered in ribbons, feathers, beading and bows.

  If I can make decent money from a single ribbon, just think how much someone would pay for an entire gown.

  My heart jumped at the thought.

  I wondered how much Audrey made on that assignment. Probably more than me, even though I did all the heavy lifting.

  Her only job was connecting a client—that is, someone wanting something valuable—with a hired professional. Me.

  My phone buzzed.

  To: bettybruce

  From: audreyfox

  Subject: Re: new assignment

  I’ll have another assignment available in two weeks. Are you available?

  To: audreyfox

  From: bettybruce

  Subject: Re: new assignment

  Aye aye, cap’n.

  To: bettybruce

  From: audreyfox

  Subject: Re: new assignment

  What?

  To: audreyfox

  From: bettybruce

  Subject: Re: new assignment

  Sorry. Yes, I am available.

  * * *

  I slid down in my seat and stared out the window as the wing of the plane slid through a layer of fluffy clouds. That was always my favorite part—going above the clouds. It was like looking at the world upside down.

  The passenger next to me, a middle-aged woman whose layers of jackets and sweaters overflowed into my seat, gripped the armrests until her knuckles turned white. She glanced at me.

  “I hate flying.”

  “I can tell.”

  “You must fly more than I do,” she said.

  I really need to start buying all the seats around me so I don’t have to deal with this shit.

  “I was just in London visiting my son. He lives there with his girlfriend. They met online. Isn’t that neat?” She smiled wide.

  I nodded. “Wow.”

  Are my headphones in my carry-on bag or my purse? Hell, they’re in the carry-on. I can’t get them unless Chatty Cathy gets up.

  “Yeah, he’s such a hoot. We went to see all the sights around the city.” She laughed. “That Big Ben! Now that is a big clock!”

  “Bell.”

  “What?”

  “Big Ben is the bell inside the clock.”

  Chatty Cathy stared at me. “Are you sure?”

  Maybe a flight attendant would move me to a different seat if I just slipped them a hundred pounds.

  The seatbelt sign blinked off and I practically jumped out of my seat. “I have to pee.”

  I stayed in the tiny bathroom for a few minutes, just leaning against the wall and staring at the ceiling. It wasn’t the most pleasant-smelling place to hide out in.

  How many people have had sex in here? It’s so cramped in here. How do people even do that?

  I frowned at my reflection in the dimly lit mirror and adjusted my shoulder-length brown wig, finger-combing parts of it that looked a bit disheveled. I couldn’t wait to be rid of it.

  Switching seats would attract unwanted attention. I couldn’t do that. Blending in is one of the most important things to remember in my job. Drawing notice gets me into trouble.

  I returned to my row, retrieved my headphones from my bag and slid past Chatty Cathy’s knees. They poked my ass but I’d rather that than get kneed in the crotch. She smiled up at me and went back to reading the terrible in-flight magazine. Before she could start talking again, I put music on and closed my eyes.

  Chatty Cathy tapped my shoulder rapidly to wake me up when our in-flight meal arrived. I peeled the top layer from the steaming food tray.

  Clearing her throat, Cathy smiled weakly. Deep creases formed at the corners of her wincing face.

  I switched my music off. “Yes?”

  She handed me a compact mirror and, trying to be subtle, pointed at my hair.

  Shit. The wig.

  I slid down in my seat and straightened it. It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, just a bit crooked.

  “My sister just finished chemo so I know all about it,” she whispered, giving my shoulder a light squeeze.

  I put her mirror on her tray and started eating. I didn’t know what to say.

  “Have you had any nausea?”

  “I haven’t even eaten yet.” I looked at my in-flight meal with a mixture of fear and disgust. “I’ll let you know.”

  She smiled. “I meant from the chemo.” Her eyes were getting teary.

  Oh jeez.

  I shrugged. It was better to say nothing in this situation.

  At least Chatty Cathy was a litt
le less chatty when she thought I was dying. She even did me a favor when evening approached.

  “My friend here,” she said, poking a flight attendant in the side as she passed. “She’s a bit chilly. Think she could have an extra blanket?”

  I have a feeling she wouldn’t have been so nice if she knew I was a professional thief and not a cancer patient.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I was totally beat when I got out of the cab in front of my building on the Upper East Side, just two blocks from the south end of Central Park.

  Every woman’s home is her castle. My little castle was equipped with a doorman, marble floors in the lobby and an elevator. Bill was working the night shift and greeted me with a smile as I rolled my luggage behind me.

  I know what you’re thinking—not a lot of millennials can afford a home with a view of the park. I know having such fancy digs is not the best way to blend in. I just fell in love when I was apartment hunting and grabbed it before someone else did. The apartment was meant for me.

  When my mom and stepdad saw the apartment for the first time, I told them I rent monthly, that people exaggerate New York’s real estate market—they really don’t, it’s brutal—and that Dad helps me with rent. I also told them the apartment is haunted, so I got a really good deal. I don’t know if they believed me or not. They also had no reason to think I’m a personal assistant who works in an office but they seem to believe that too.

  When anyone else asks what I do for a living, I tell them my parents own a ski resort in Vermont and they bought the apartment for me. Thankfully, I’m a private person so I haven’t had to explain often.

  One of the few people who asked me about this was Nathan Bryant, who evidently bought my story because he moved in with me shortly after. That was six months ago.