Thick as Thieves Read online

  Molly Miranda: Thick as Thieves

  By Jillianne Hamilton

  © 2016 Jillianne Hamilton. All rights reserved.

  Jillianne-Hamilton.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9939870-3-8

  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 my husband.

  Also, for Charlie and Emma.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I bet this wine tastes like grape-tinged trash.

  The faded label on the bottle had browned with age, part of it torn away at the corner. Fancy script letters read “Romanee Conti” along the top, with some French type printed smaller underneath. In the bottom left-hand corner, in a bold font, was the identifier I needed the most: 1945.

  “Only six hundred bottles of this burgundy were made,” Audrey, my occasional employer, had said a few days before when I met her in London. “We’re to get one of them.”

  I dusted off the edges of the bottle, careful not to further damage the label. I wound bubble wrap around the bottle and slid it into the canvas satchel slung over my shoulder. I’d added extra padding inside the bag to stop it from getting jostled around too much.

  This basement was dark and cool—a perfect place for a wine cellar. Heaps of barrels lined one wall, while wine shelves stood tall across the marble floor. This room was one of many narrow underground passages lined with a lot of wine. This catacomb of wine bottles would likely make any collector fume with white-hot jealousy.

  Why own fancy wine unless you’re going to drink it? Ruby would have a field day in this place, getting her drink on. Not that she’s terribly fussy about the age of her wine. Or the quality, for that matter.

  I found another wine bottle—this one from 1972—from a different room and slid it into the empty shelf spot. The owners hopefully wouldn’t notice their prized possession was missing for months, maybe even years. I wondered what made this wine so special and valuable. Just because something is rare doesn’t mean it’s good. I’ve only ever cooked lasagna one single time in my life, and it certainly wasn’t good. Almost burned my kitchen to the ground, come to think of it.

  Maybe I just don’t see wine as something that special, ever since I drank that bottle of Pinot grigio on Valentine’s Day in college. Turns out white wine doesn’t pair well with chocolate ice cream and sadness.

  I climbed the stone steps to the cellar door, my fingers wrapped tightly around the strap of my bag. I flicked off the cellar light, lifted the heavy iron latch, and gently closed the door behind me. The back door out of the house was only a few feet away. An outside light shone in, collecting in a pool of light on the floor in front of the exit.

  “Bonjour.”

  I froze, only moving my eyes to the left, where the high-pitched sound came from.

  A tiny child with curly blonde hair stared up at me, her blue eyes wide. Her pink pajamas and bare feet were so small. I’d forgotten a human being could be that little.

  I swallowed, my eyes darting around the room. No parents in sight, just this kid. I suddenly felt like The Grinch, stuffing the tree up the fireplace with Cindy Lou Who walking in all cute and innocent. But in that case, both of them spoke English. And in rhyme.

  “Bonjour,” I whispered, using up the extent of my French rather quickly. “You should be sleeping.”

  Did you hear me in the wine cellar, or do you just walk around your house in the middle of the night on a regular basis?

  She rubbed her eyes and continued staring at me. She murmured something, her eyelids looking heavy. The little girl seemed especially interested in my face. I don’t blame her—I’d covered it with black face paint before breaking into her family’s home. Face paint is more comfortable to wear than a balaclava, and it doesn’t hinder my vision.

  Lowering to my knees, I smiled at her. I placed my finger to my lips and made a ‘shh’ sound. Smiling, she put her finger to her top lip and hissed softly, like ‘shh’ was beyond her abilities.

  Her eyelids drooped even more as she continued looking at me with wonder. I pointed to her and then held my hands flat together, palms facing, laying my head on them like a pillow. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep. She nodded dozily and toddled away.

  I exhaled slowly and let myself out the door, the same way I came in.

  Hopefully Cindy Lou would forget meeting me or assume I was just a strange dream.

  * * *

  The next morning, a stream of sunshine filtered in through the open window, splashing onto the aqua stucco walls of my hotel room. Butter-colored curtains danced in the warm breeze. I slunk further down under my crisp white sheet and sighed.

  This is heaven.

  It had been almost sunrise by the time I got back to my hotel. It was now noon, and the day was warming up fast.

  New rule: I only take job assignments in the south of France.

  As I was about to doze off again, my phone beeped on the bed beside me. I tried to ignore it. It beeped again.

  You should check that. It’s probably Rhys.

  I opened one sleepy eye and glared at my cell. I checked my messages and groaned.

  Audrey: Good morning.

  Audrey: Don’t ignore me.

  Audrey: Let me guess. You are still in bed sleeping.

  Betty: Not sleeping. Out for a morning jog and left my phone at the hotel.

  Audrey: I highly doubt that. Did everything go to plan last night?

  Kind of?

  Betty: Yes, absolutely.

  It was a rare occasion that I actually had a few hours to myself before seeing Audrey, the cold British woman who hires me for freelance thievery work and delivering the stolen item to her. Since this was one of those occasions, I was glad to be in such a beautiful location.

  I ordered breakfast up to the room and ate it on the balcony, sipping strong coffee, enjoying the warm breeze and admiring the spectacular view.

  This seaside town was perched on a steep hill overlooking a busy harbor. Every structure surrounding my hotel looked about a thousand years old. Buildings of yellow, pink and bright blue dotted the coastline, all competing for the best view of that beautiful turquoise sea.

  Stunning, sure. But do they have a Whole Foods?

  * * *

  Three taxi rides, one train and one flight later, I was back in London. It certainly wasn’t New York, and yet it still felt more like home to me—probably because I don’t have to Google Translate my way through the city. Audrey said she didn’t have time to meet me at our usual coffee shop in Chelsea and gave me a Belgravia address instead.

  I lugged my suitcase behind me up a set of stone steps. A well-dressed doorman opened the door for me and eyed me suspiciously as I came in. I smiled wide at him on my way to the lift. While I waited for it to come down and the doors to open, I noticed the listing of all the offices beside it. Several were law offices. One was a psychologist. The fifth and top floor was for a charity: The Fox-Hartford Foundation for Women.

  I stared at the shiny gold plaque as the lift doors slid open.

  Audrey wants to meet me here? At the office of her charity? That seems way too personal for her.

  The lift clunked a bit as it started up and gave me a jolt, stopping at the top floor of the beautiful old building.

  I stepped out of the elevator and looked around. The reception area was just as I’d imagined it—every wall was bright white, a
nd the receptionist’s tidy desk had a spotless glass top. It looked like an Apple store. Black-and-white photographs of women laughing hung on the wall above a black leather sofa. The receptionist looked at me with icy, bored eyes. Her pin-straight brown hair was slicked back and pulled into an aggressively tight no-nonsense bun. She looked like a younger, brunette version of Audrey, actually.

  “May I help you?” she said, giving me the same once-over the doorman had moments before, her eyes lingering on my jeans and Beatles t-shirt.

  Jeez. Does Audrey have a daughter, or did she specifically her hire own clone?

  “Hi. I’m Betty Bruce.” Betty Bruce is my alias. “I’m here to see Audrey Fox.”

  She lifted her phone. “Ms. Fox, your four o’clock is here… Yes, Ms. Fox.”

  The receptionist stood up and let me into Audrey’s office. It was like a larger version of the other room, just with different artwork. Audrey sat behind a massive black desk, a steaming teacup in her manicured hands. She eyed the suitcase as I sat in the chair in front of her. “Is that it?”

  I unzipped the suitcase, pulling away the blanket I wrapped around the bottle to keep it safe, and slid the dark glass bottle onto the desk.

  She studied it for a moment and then picked it up, her eyes darting over every inch of the label. Her fingers floated over the glass. I may have imagined it, but I thought I saw a tiny smile.

  “It’s really in very good condition,” she said quietly.

  “What’s the deal with this anyway? You’ve never sent me to France before, and I’ve never sto—acquired wine before,” I said, catching myself just in time.

  You never know when a receptionist is going to be lurking by the door.

  “We’re expanding our business,” she said, her eyes still locked to the bottle. “France has recently lost several of its top … people.” She had to be talking about thieves. “I intend to fill that void with my people.”

  “What do you mean by ‘lost?’”

  “One of their people turned the rest of them in. There was a thing with the police, and now they’re all dead or in jail.” She waved her hand like she was shooing a fly.

  I swallowed. “Okay.”

  She moved the bottle to the center of the desk and pointed at it. “This was an important assignment. This shows my contacts in Paris that we are capable and trustworthy. This is good.” She looked back at me. “You may want to learn French.”

  I chuckled and then stopped when I remembered Audrey never jokes. She was completely serious about me taking up French.

  I barely have a grasp of English, never mind a second language.

  * * *

  At noon the next day, I arrived at Cedar & Watson, my favorite accounting firm in New York. I pushed the glass door open with my shoulder while balancing several boxes of warm Chinese food in my arms.

  The secretary looked up at me and then went back to texting on her phone.

  Why do all secretaries look at me like I’m a rodent?

  “How’s your day going, Tara?” I asked, struggling to set some of the cartons on her desk.

  “That smells like hot garbage,” she said, glaring up at me.

  I narrowed my eyes. “I’ll have you know that these are the best dumplings in Brooklyn. I just walked ten blocks with these. I was going to offer you some, but guess what. You’re rude. No dumplings for you.”

  Ruby Watson, best friend and accounting wizard extraordinaire, opened her office door and inhaled deeply. Her thick brown hair fanned out over her shoulders. She closed her eyes for dramatic effect.

  “I smell deliciousness,” she said as I handed her two cartons.

  “This one’s for Eli.” I pointed to the last carton.

  Ruby’s business partner, Eli, is totally in love with her, and Ruby hasn’t even noticed. The least I could do for the poor guy was bring him some dim sum.

  Tara wrinkled her nose and snatched the carton from the counter. “He’s not here right now. I’ll put it in the fridge so it’s not reeking on my desk.”

  I followed Ruby into her office and shut the door. Noodles fell out from between Ruby’s chopsticks as she watched me effortlessly using mine.

  “How did you learn to eat with chopsticks?” Ruby speared a dumpling.

  “You don’t know how often I order Chinese food.”

  “This is so good. Much better than the two-day-old salad I was going to eat.” Ruby prodded a noodle with a chopstick. “So, how was France? Was it magnificent?”

  Ruby is one of the few people who know how I make my living. Thanks to her creative use of her accounting skills, it’s not totally obvious to the IRS that I’m a criminal.

  I sighed and sat back on the sofa. “It was so beautiful, Ruby. It was … perfect. Peaceful, ya know? I’d love to own a cottage there someday.”

  Ruby’s eyebrows went up. “Really? Wow. You don’t even speak French.”

  “Audrey said I might want to learn.”

  “I take it that means you’ll be going back to France then?”

  “Seems that way. I’m glad. I love it there.”

  Ruby pursed her lips and batted her eyelashes. “Will You-Know-Who be there?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You can say his name, he’s not Voldemort.”

  Ruby was referring to Rhys, a Scottish fellow I’d previously worked with on an assignment. I made the terrible mistake of telling Ruby that he was good-looking and that there was maybe some chemistry between us.

  “I didn’t want to spook you,” Ruby said. “You get twitchy whenever I mention Rhys.”

  “Twitchy? I don’t get twitchy.”

  “Did you see Rhys when you were in London?”

  “No,” I said through a mouthful of noodles.

  “Did you see him in France?”

  “No.”

  “Well, why the hell not? You guys text all the time, right?”

  I hadn’t seen Rhys since we parted ways at Heathrow Airport two months before, but we’d been texting on an almost daily basis. Occasionally he would remind me that we destroyed important movie memorabilia by crashing a James Bond car. I would then remind him that the car didn’t actually appear in any James Bond movies and that it was made for a film that didn’t even get made. Then he would remind me to shut up.

  I shrugged. “I wasn’t even in London that long. He’s not going to drop what he’s doing just to see me for ten minutes.”

  “Don’t give me that. That sounds exactly like something he’d do.”

  Ruby was not wrong. Two months ago, he rearranged his flight from California to the UK just so he could share a flight with me from Tulsa to New York. He also flew over to talk to me in person about stealing that James Bond car.

  “Okay. Maybe it does sound like something he’d do. But ya know, we’re both busy. I’m sure we’ll see one another sometime.”

  Ruby stared at me, annoyed.

  “What?”

  “I really think you guys need to clear the air. Talk things through. Touch one another inappropriately, that sort of thing.”

  “I’m not going to sleep with him. We’re friends!” I shook my head at her. “Keep in mind, lady, that you were cheering me on two months ago when I had just slept with your cousin.”

  “Hey. I just want you to have a good and healthy sex life … with a hot Scot.” Ruby smiled wide at me.

  “I’m good, thanks.” I poked at some noodles in the carton. “How is Nate anyway?”

  “He’s doing good,” she said. “He’s dating a writer, and they’re doing an online comic together.”

  I smiled through the tiny pang of jealousy in my heart. Yes, I was completely over Nate, but it still kind of stung to hear about him seeing someone else.

  “She’s nice, but not as pretty as you,” she said, reading my mind.

  “Thanks, Ruby—”

  There was a loud pounding at the office door. BANG, BANG, BANG.

  “NYPD. OPEN UP.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ruby and I looked
at one another. My heart hammered in my chest.

  Well. This was fun. It’s all over. One look at Ruby’s cooked books and we’re both in the clink. I wonder if prison is anything like Orange Is the New Black.

  I leapt to my feet, throwing my carton of Chinese food to the floor.

  Where do I go? I can’t jump out the window. Fuck! Sorry Ruby, you’re on your own.

  As the door handle started to turn, I panicked and darted behind the door, flattening myself against the wall. It swung open, stopping as it hit the tips of my shoes. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping the cops had the wrong address and would be on their way.

  “I’ve got a warrant for Ruby Watson,” said a female police officer in the doorway. “Are you Ruby Watson?” I heard her feet stroll into the carpeted office.

  Ruby stood up. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I have to take you into custody, miss,” the cop continued. “I have some questions. Lots of questions, in fact. It’s gonna be a long night.”

  “Are you gonna put handcuffs on me, officer?”

  Why is Ruby using her sexy voice with this cop? Ruby Watson, this is not the right time for your sexy voice!

  I peered out from behind the door. My eyes went wide, and my mouth dropped open as I watched the police officer wrap her arms around Ruby’s waist and kiss her neck.

  What the fuuuuuuuuuck?

  While the cop’s back was to me, Ruby made a gesture with her hand, waving me away from the door.

  I knelt down and pushed the door closed. “Jeez, there’s my contact lens! How’d it get behind the door?”

  The police officer, an African-American woman with round brown eyes, an athletic hourglass frame and short dreads peaking out from under her cap, stepped away from Ruby, alarmed to find another person in the room. She looked a little embarrassed that she’d been making out with Ruby’s neck with me right there.

  I stood up and mimed putting a contact lens in. It wasn’t an Oscar-winning performance, I assure you.