Nightwork, page 41
“You’ll have a meal first,” Sebastien insisted. “Keep your energy up.”
“A light one, no alcohol.”
Miranda ate a little, but mostly pretended to. She’d expected to worry. She hadn’t expected to feel nearly sick with worry even as Booth appeared absolutely calm.
When he went upstairs with Sebastien, she helped Mags with the dishes.
“It’s okay to worry. It’s natural to worry.”
“Are you worried?”
“I always worry some,” Mags admitted. “I worried when he’d sneak out of the house as a kid. Dana so sick, the bills piling up so high. Then there was money for the mortgage, for the medical bills. I worried he was dealing drugs, or himself, my sister’s sweet boy. But he wasn’t.”
“Oh, Mags. You carried so much weight.”
Mags shook her head. “Dana wasn’t weight, and neither was Booth. They were—and are—lights in my life.”
She touched the celestite crystal she wore on a chain in memory of her sister.
“After I pinned Booth down on what he was doing, I worried. But he kept the roof over his mom’s head, food on the table. We couldn’t have done it with the cleaning business alone. It was too much.”
She closed the dishwasher. “I worried about Sebastien, but he’s pretty much retired now. His girls are grown and set. He has enough. My business with Dauphine’s doing fine, and he helps out there. Keeps him occupied.”
“But you’re worried about both of them tonight.”
Mags gave Miranda’s hand a squeeze. “Waiting just sucks, doesn’t it? We’re going to light candles. Some good white magic.”
“I don’t know if I believe in that kind of magic.”
“Oh, I believe enough for both of us.” With the next thought, Mags’s smile turned to cold fury. “If I didn’t, I’d make a goddamn voodoo doll or poppet of LaPorte and burn it to ashes. He wouldn’t know what hit him.”
“You actually believe you could do that?”
“If I couldn’t, I know a few back home who could. But it’s not the way. This is the way.”
“So says the Mandalorian.”
With a wild laugh, Mags grabbed Miranda, gave her a noisy kiss. “Booth must be circus-clown crazy about you.”
“Do you know any circus clowns?”
“Dated one. Moody bastard.” Mags gave the kitchen a last glance. “Okay. So we light candles, and we wait until they’re back again.”
When he came down, Miranda realized Booth looked like her image of a cat burglar. Long, lean, lanky in black jeans, a long-sleeved black tee, black high-tops.
She decided against asking herself what finding that outrageously sexy said about her.
“You’re not going now. It’s barely ten.”
“I’ve got the dark, the house is empty. Nobody around but security. That doesn’t change if I wait.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “It’s going to be fine. I’ll be back soon.”
Don’t panic, don’t panic.
Too late.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. How to feel.”
“Think of it as me getting called into work for a couple hours.” He kissed her, light and casual, before he glanced at Mags. “I’ll bring your boyfriend back.”
“See that you do.”
“I do the driving, me, so I do the bringing back. À bientôt, ma belle.” Sebastien’s kiss was neither light nor casual.
Then they walked out the door, two men in thievery black, and drove away in a black SUV.
“Oh God, this is really happening.” Riding on the panic, Miranda took two steps outside as if she’d run after the car.
Mags just curled her fingers around Miranda’s arm. “Do you play Scrabble?”
“What?” Wild-eyed, baffled, Miranda stared. “What?”
“We’re going to light the candles, then I’m going to show you how we play Scrabble in my family. It requires wine.”
* * *
Sebastien drove by the mansion. Security lights beamed. More lights glowed against the windows of the outbuildings. The carriage lights flanking the entrance doors burned a soft gold.
“There.” Sebastien jutted his chin. “The man and the big curly dog.”
“Labradoodle.”
“They head home now. He walks the dog this time every night. Not much foot traffic otherwise, see? Ah, but there?”
Booth glanced across and down the street. “Somebody’s having a party. Might have some walkers when it breaks up. Turn left here. I’ll backtrack. I’ll signal when I’m ready for pickup.”
“The Goddess waits for you, cher. She wants you to take her.”
“Then I hope she’s packed and ready.”
“No, no, I mean what I say, me. I feel this inside my bones. She’s been used for greed, for envy, for blood and death. Now it’s for justice, for payment overdue. She’s the answer, and I think she’s always been your answer. She waits for you.”
Taking a moment, Booth let himself feel. “I want a life, Sebastien. All I’ve ever wanted was a life of my own choosing.”
“Then go get her.”
Booth slipped out of the car. A couple stepped out of a restaurant half a block down and into a waiting cab. He walked on as it passed him, just a man taking a stroll on a pleasant night in spring.
He smelled roses from someone’s garden, then heliotrope; he heard the thump of bass from the open windows of a car driving by.
He thought of nothing, set everything else aside, but the next step.
And in the shadows between streetlights, in the narrow gap between security cameras, he took that next step.
In his head he saw, as clearly as the map he’d made, the lights, the cameras. He took a wide berth, used the trees, the shrubs, caught the scent of night-blooming jasmine, as he crab-walked through another gap.
He took a short run, crouched, and paused when he saw the door to the security house open.
The man stepped out, and Booth saw the 9mm on his hip as he lit a cigarette. And through the roses and jasmine Booth caught the sting of smoke as he exhaled.
The man strolled as he smoked, a well-built man with blond hair cut high and tight. Military, but not on patrol, Booth decided. The cameras handled things. Just a smoke break, a leg stretch.
And a short delay in the schedule.
He waited it out. Once or twice the guard strolled by close enough Booth could have reached out and grabbed his leg.
Then he field-dressed the smoke—semper fi—put the butt into an Altoids tin, and made his way back to the guardhouse.
Booth gave it another full minute before he took the next run.
Now he crouched by the far side of the house under a Japanese maple. Tricky here, he thought. While the guards couldn’t see him—except through the cameras—he couldn’t see them either.
But he could see the way in he’d selected—side door into the orangery—and took out his remote.
Seven seconds, he thought. Interrupt the feed—he hoped—for seven seconds. Some static, a quick glitch, all he needed. Inside, ten seconds to reset the alarm. They’d likely programmed it to at least thirty, or more. Most did. But in his calculations, anything over ten could—and should—alert the guards to a breach.
If he went over either time, he had—maybe—thirty seconds to run.
And screw that, he thought. The Goddess waited for him. Miranda waited for him. His life—one of his choosing—waited for him.
Running wasn’t an option this time.
He engaged the remote, and, counting off the seconds, bolted to the door. The lock wasn’t the real problem. Not leaving any signs of forced entry—that was the issue.
He finessed the lock, stepped in, restarted his internal clock. He pulled off the cover, attached his digital reader.
Counting, counting as the numbers flashed on the display.
It hit the last of the six-digit code in ten flat.
So he stood surrounded by the heady scents of oranges, lemons, blossoms, eyes closed, orienting himself.
It came back to him, rose up inside him, that visceral thrill. It had been nearly a year now. One job the previous summer, just to keep the muscles tuned. Then back to school.
Then Miranda.
Now he embraced it as he moved through the house. He used no light, stayed well away from windows not only because someone might see movement but to avoid any chance of setting off a motion detector.
The housekeeper/interior security had quarters off the kitchen, so he avoided that area. He knew she was up—he’d seen the light. He got close enough only to hear the murmur behind the door. Some laughter.
Television, he concluded. One of the late-night shows.
All the better. He’d do what he came to do, and she’d report no disturbances.
Other live-in staff had separate quarters on the property—he’d seen lights in the staff house, some movement behind the windows.
He’d keep a careful eye on departure.
He used the main staircase to the second floor, then the third.
He walked as he had with Miranda and the lady of the house, carefully avoiding the two treads he’d noted let out quiet creaks.
He walked directly to the locked door. He didn’t worry about leaving some subtle signs of lock tampering. In fact, he’d intended to leave more than he ever would, still subtle, but signs any decent cop would find.
Russell would leave more, he knew.
He got through, shut the door behind him. And waited for any sounds, waited for his eyes to adjust yet again.
Darker here, he thought, and more creaks in the damn stairs. Still the odds of house security hearing them down on the main floor and through a steel door hit nil.
At the top of the steps, he made out two windows—both with blackout shades drawn. He pulled out his penlight, scanned the space—large, many shapes, angled ceilings.
And a camera.
“Well, shit.”
He considered it while he stood out of range and once again calculated the odds. No way Mountjoy would trust paid employees with a view of his private collection. This was for him.
He could look in on it while he was away, or record himself in the midst of his treasures.
Either way, he had to disable it long enough to do what he came to do.
He used the remote again, let out a long breath when the camera light went from green to red.
With no time to waste, he took a chance, hit the light switch, and flooded the room.
He’d seen this sort of thing before, but admitted Alan C. Mountjoy had created a very sumptuous space for himself. Antique furniture, artfully arranged, a small but well-stocked bar. Art, of course. He counted eight exquisite paintings, twice that in sculptures. The glint of jewelry in glass displays.
And an impressive, very impressive, collection of gems—raw and faceted.
And the centerpiece stood on a gold column with the top shaped like an open palm to hold her.
She was gorgeous. Raw, elemental, pure. The only one of her kind.
She took his breath away.
Everything else in the room faded beside her. The Degas, the Rodin, the ice-white diamonds, the bloodred rubies faded to nothing in comparison.
When he touched her, when he lifted her, he would have sworn he heard her breathing.
He set the replica in her place. Perfect fit in that golden palm.
He heard his own heart knocking as he reverently placed her in the velvet bag, and the bag in his leather satchel.
Backing away, he turned off the lights, restarted the camera.
“I think you were waiting,” he murmured as he went down the stairs. “And I hope I’m taking you where you want to go.”
It occurred to him if that wasn’t the case, legend claimed she’d let him know in a fatal sort of way.
When he reached the second floor, he saw the lights on in the main. And sincerely hoped that fatal sort of way hadn’t arrived.
He ducked into the shadows.
Housekeeper, doing a sweep, he realized. Would she come upstairs? If so, he could evade her, wait her out.
He heard her humming, caught the tune. Okay, a Gaga fan. She couldn’t be all bad. And if she caught him, she’d kick his ass or shoot him. He preferred avoiding either.
He caught sight of her crossing the foyer to the front door. Short robe, pockets drooping some. Good legs, bare feet.
She checked the front door, the alarm.
Then took out the phone in her pocket.
“This is Rena, giving the all clear. I’m turning in for the night.”
“Copy that. All clear. We’ve got the watch.”
She put the phone back in her pocket. Booth suspected the second pocket drooped from the weight of a weapon.
She moved out of sight, and the lights went off.
He waited, giving her time, plenty of time, to settle back into her quarters. Then he added more, just to top it off, before he slipped through the dark down the stairs, and back to the orangery.
For the hell of it, he plucked an orange, put it in his bag.
He dealt with the alarm, the door, and was out, retracing his steps.
No elation, not yet. He wouldn’t allow it. He texted Sebastien as he headed away from the mansion, toward the bars, the restaurants, the people, the nightlife.
Four blocks away, Sebastien glided to the curb.
“C’est fini?” Sebastien asked when Booth got in beside him.
“You bet your ass.”
“You took a little longer than planned.”
“Still inside the window.” Booth leaned his head back. No elation, he thought again, not until all, not just this phase, was finished.
Hell, maybe just a little elation.
“I just stole the Red Goddess. No one’s ever going to know but you, Mags, and Miranda. And, eventually, LaPorte.”
“Mon ami, you will always know.”
“Yeah. Holy shit. Yeah.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I couldn’t get my breath, and my ears started ringing when I picked her up. Maybe nobody should know that part but you.”
Smoothly, Sebastien pulled up to the house. “You make me proud. You’ve done what no one has.”
“She’s been stolen before.”
“With blood and pain and death. And, to me, cher, you freed her. And this is a different thing.”
“It’s what it felt like.” Still a little shaken, Booth got out of the car. “Swear to God.”
The door to the house swung open. Miranda stood in the backwash of light with Mags behind her. She rubbed a hand on her heart and worked up a smile.
“Welcome back. You’re okay. You’re both okay.”
“All good.” He walked up to kiss her, felt her trembling. “I’m sorry you worried.” He reached into the bag, pulled out the orange. “Brought you a souvenir.”
She stared at it, began to laugh. Took it, pressed it to her face to draw in the scent. “Thanks.”
“No trouble?” Mags reached out, just to touch both of them. “No problems?”
“One of the guards had a smoke and a stroll, the housekeeper does a final check of the main floor, and Mountjoy has a camera in his collection room. Took me a little longer to get around those.”
“For God’s sake—or the Goddess’s,” Mags corrected, “let’s see her.”
Booth took the bag back to the kitchen, and, lifting the stone out, set it on the counter. Pure, raw red, wider than it was long, it sat—a kind of large fist on the granite.
“It looks the same as the fake,” Miranda said after a moment. “But it doesn’t … feel the same.”
Mesmerized, Booth traced a finger over the stone. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because I know it’s not. But it feels more potent. It’s the word that comes to mind.”
Sebastien cradled the stone, then lifted it. And let out a long, soft “Ahhhh” before he smiled at Mags. “If I could, I would give her to you.”
She laid her hands over his with the Goddess under them. “I’ll take you instead. Potent.” Mags nodded at Miranda. “It’s a good word.”
“You could keep it.” In turn, Miranda laid a hand over Mags’s. “You must be tempted.”
“No.” Not even a little tempted, he thought. Not even a little. “She has a purpose.” He put his hand over the others’. “When she’s fulfilled it, she belongs to the world. No more hiding.”
With a nod, Miranda stepped back and waited until he put the stone back in velvet. “What’s next?”
“Finals week.”
Laughing, she put her arms around him and held on tight.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Finals weeks rushed right into graduation. As always, Booth felt a lift when he watched his seniors cross the stage in cap and gown.
And as always, he wondered what they’d do, where they’d go, what mark they’d leave on the world.
The school year wound down for the rest of his students, and for him.
And as he always did before he left on the last day, he walked the halls, walked through the theater, and backstage. Because he could never be sure he’d come back.
This year, more than any other, everything hung in the balance.
He had a ten-day lag until his annual party—and plenty to fill it.
When he got home, Miranda met him at the doors with her suitcase—and his.
“You said you wanted to get going as soon as possible.”
“Yeah.” His rubbed his hands along her arms. “I wish—”
“No point going over all that again. We agreed I would go. And I have a part to play.”
“You agreed,” Booth corrected, then gave those arms a squeeze. “No, I think the word’s ‘insisted.’”
“I’m looking forward to seeing New Orleans, Sebastien’s bayou, Lake Charles. I’m a prop again, just like before, that’s understood. But I have that role to play, and I’m looking forward to that, too.
“Plus,” she added, “you’re the one who bumped up the timeline.”
“Because LaPorte’s in seclusion for the next few days after getting a tune-up.” Doing his best to set aside worry, Booth waved a hand in front of his face. “And, thanks to Sebastien, the Moren family and staff are about to vacate the premises until tomorrow morning. Dangerous gas leak.”
