Quite obviously, Carter lived alone. And he loved it that way. He liked spending time on his own, watching TV or reading a good book—one of the four he owned. He would lie on his couch or sit with his feet on the little table, and stay like that for hours until his back or legs hurt.

  Carter hardly ever used the cooker; he didn’t like cooking. However, Carter’s fridge was never empty. Precooked food was piled on the shelves, ready to be eaten. Carter had also managed to squeeze a table and two chairs between his fridge and his couch. At the time he put the table there, he thought he’d use it to eat, but it was actually constantly overloaded with papers of all kinds, and he had to eat sitting on the couch. In the bedroom, space was a luxury as well, his bed filling half of the room. Carter also had a chest of drawers where he kept his trousers and shirts, and a lone shelf on which stood the four books.

  The small flat never saw anyone else than Carter, and maybe a woman sometimes (but she wouldn’t stay long). Carter only had two friends: his semi-automatic Glock pistol, and Rafael López the bartender. And he had no girlfriend. They all ran away when they discovered by what means he earned his money. Because, although he lived in a tiny place, Carter did have money. A lot of it. He kept it scattered in a number of banks across the country.

  Carter was forty-four and for the last twenty years or so, he had been collecting—his word to say stealing—rare and precious works of art. From those he made the most perfect forgeries and then sold them at incredible prices. When the buyer noticed that their purchase was fake, Carter was long gone and impossible to find. He moved from town to city, from motel rooms to tiny apartments, from one woman to the next.

  Carter wasn’t the kind of person who’d get attached to anyone or anything. He was cold, almost emotionless, and had smiled maybe twelve times in his entire life. He was materialistic. Objects you see, they can’t trick you, they can’t manipulate or defeat you; you’ll always be master of them. Whereas people, they’re mean and wicked. People, mostly women, are mischief in a likable shape. And for all those reasons, Carter was a proud lover of things. However, he still liked trying his charm on a young woman now and then. He wasn’t especially handsome, but there was something in his blue eyes that seemed to make him irresistible. That is, until he opened his mouth to let out a flow of sexist comments.

  The TV show finally ended with the animator announcing the date of the grand exhibition which would put the ruby at the center of all interest for two days. And those two days were only a week away. Which gave but little time to Carter if he was to plan any ruby theft.

  He sat down once more in front of the TV. There was now a show about veterinarians in Australia, but Carter wasn’t paying attention. He was blankly staring at the moving images without even noticing they were moving. His thoughts wandered from the ruby to the exhibition date to the young lady in the white shirt. He’d been living in New York for quite a while now, but he’d never visited Spears Art Gallery. His flat was situated in a little street in Lower Manhattan, while Spears Art Gallery was near Fort Green in Brooklyn. Carter had been through enough robberies to know that every possible door of the museum would be closely guarded at any hour of day and night.

  Carter got up and went to his fridge. He opened it, walked back to the couch. He really wanted that beautiful ruby. But he could hardly imagine how he would get his hands on it by himself in an unknown place. Carter always worked alone. Were he to ask for help, he would strongly go against his principles. He walked to the fridge and closed the door. Then he opened it again, got a beer out, closed it. He picked up the remote and switched to another channel, and another, and another. Sipping on his beer, he pondered. The art gallery looked pretty big on TV. He would need to get the plans of the building.

  Carter liked drinking. But not everywhere. His best friend—a Spanish guy who’d come to New York for some God-forsaken reason—worked as a bartender in the little pub just next to his place. Carter drank only dry whiskey, only at that bar, only served by his friend. Anything else tasted like shit.

  Carter pushed the door. There were a few people leaning on the counter, and there was a couple kissing at a table in the dark. Carter looked at his watch; a bit less than half past nine, still early. He walked toward the counter and waited. He sat at his usual place, near the door, leaning on his left elbow with his chin resting on his cupped hand. He saw Rafael López at the far end of the pub and winked at him. In less than a minute, his friend was pouring the whiskey.

  “Hi there,” he said while handing the drink. “Long time no see, what’s up?”

  “What do you know about Spears Art Gallery?” Carter asked.

  “Ah someone’s been watching TV…”

  “Guilty as charged.” Carter sipped on his whiskey. López was looking at him through his round glasses with a large smile on his face. “What?” Carter said.

  “I knew you’d come to ask me.”

  “Good. Then you can help me, right?”

  “Maybe. What exactly do you want?”

  “I—” Carter stopped when he saw a group of young men walking in his direction. They passed him and sat at a table behind him. He cleared his throat and said in a low voice, “I need the plans of the gallery.”

  López laughed. “Will you ever ask for an easy favor?”

  Carter half smiled and sipped a mouthful of whiskey. It was now almost ten o’clock. People were invading the pub. Carter liked being near the door because he could get out in a minute without having to walk through the crowd. López served a few drinks and came back to him.

  “I might be able to get what you ask, but not before a few days. I guess you’ll shorten the exhibition at the gallery. Right?”

  “I dunno. The ruby, that magnificent baby…” Carter said, half dreaming. “It might be less closely guarded after the exhibition.”

  “Might be too late by then.”

  Carter raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not the only one in New York who likes jewels.” López turned away to attend newly arrived customers.

  A moment later, he was back with a second whiskey. Carter was staring at him in a interrogative way. López laughed when he thought that if they’d been in a cartoon, a huge interrogation mark would be hanging above his friend’s face.

  “What are you laughing at?” Carter said, falsely offended.

  “Nothing.”

  “Someone else has been asking you about the Spears exhibition?”

  The bartender shook his head. “No. Well, at least not yet. But I know she likes—”

  “She?” Carter interrupted.

  “Yes. She likes jewels of all kinds. And, like you, she’s not a very good friend of the NYPD.”

  “And you think I’ll be outrun by a woman?”

  “Oh don’t be so self-confident, she’s good and—”

  A strong voice shouted the bartender’s name. He mumbled some inaudible insult toward his boss and got back to work. When he turned back, Carter was gone.

  Three days later, the plans of the museum were stretched on Carter’s table. The gallery was actually smaller than he had imagined. There were three doors: the south main entrance, a second important entrance on the east side, and a back door. Carter wondered if the back door would be guarded. It looked as if it lead to nowhere. The main hall where the ruby would be displayed was accessible through the eastern door and the main entrance, though both doors were separated from the main room by a little hall. At the far end of the hall, a small door and a flight of stairs lead presumably to some offices upstairs. But the back door seemed to lead only into a corridor of relative unimportance, which was parallel to the big hall.

  “What’s in that corridor?” Carter said out loud. Private bathrooms for the employees, or lockers maybe. In any case, a vulnerable part of the museum. Yet, how could one know if the door was watched or not? Carter decided he wouldn’t take any chances. His plan was to walk in through the main door, hide somewhere—maybe in that small corridor—and get into action at night.

  On the first day of the exhibition at Spears Art Gallery, Carter dressed up. He’d been to a number of art exhibitions in his life, and he well knew that people liked to look posh when attending them. So he took his most elegant shirt, a dark blue shirt with an Italian collar. He exchanged his blue jeans for black trousers and wore shining black leather shoes. No one would notice him dressed like that; he would just be one more person in the crowd, instead of being “that guy with the blue jeans.”

  Carter went out into the street and waved at a cab, which rushed by, already occupied. He walked on a bit and saw another yellow car. He stretched his hand, but that one was full as well. Carter swore and kept walking. Finding an empty taxi in just a minute only happens in the movies. Yet, after a few more tries, Carter finally sat at the back of a car.

  “Spears Art Gallery,” he said.

  “You too?” the driver sounded half surprised, half annoyed. “Looks like everyone’s goin’ to see that ruby.”

  Carter didn’t answer. He just sat back and enjoyed the view. They crossed Manhattan Bridge, so Carter could fully admire Brooklyn Bridge on his right. He tried to remember how long it had taken to build it, but failed. He could only recall having learned at school that a lot of workers died because of the water pressure. But what a work of art stood there in the end. Too bad it was impossible to make forgeries of that one.

  The driver pulled Carter away from his reveries by announcing that they’d arrived. Carter quickly paid and got out of the cab. He stood in front of the art gallery, staring at it for a second. Loads of people were waiting at the main entrance. Carter walked around the building. He was aiming for the eastern door. He guessed that less people knew about it and it would be easier to get in through there. He was right. He waited in the queue for about ten minutes.

  “Here’s your ticket,” the cashier said when he handed her the money. “If you wish to admire the ruby of Monsieur Duval, just follow the red carpet.”

  “Thank you.” Carter entered the gallery. It was darker than he had imagined. The walls were brown and clothed with paintings and pictures. He looked at the floor. Under his feet was a red carpet which looked brand new, while under it a blue carpet seemed permanent. “Follow the yellow brick road,” Carter sang to himself. Well, here, the yellow brick road was actually a red carpeted road. Maybe he should have worn golden slippers to counterbalance the colors.

  Carter was gazing at the ruby when he noticed her. She was standing on the other side of the showcasing display. Long black hair, dark eyes, a long dark red dress. She was almost as beautiful as the ruby. Carter walked around the crowd to stop next to her.

  “Quite a nice sculpture,” he said.

  “A beautiful jewel, you mean.” Her voice was low and soft.

  “Women see the jewel, men see the art.”

  She turned to face him. Her beauty struck him as she folded her arms under her breasts. He couldn’t help looking down.

  “Women see the eyes, men see the flesh,” she said provocatively.

  He instantly lifted his eyes to meet hers, which were illuminated by a dark and menacing look.

  “Have a nice day, mister.”

  “Carter,” he said, but she was already gone.

  Her

  Juliana Farrell was absentmindedly sipping on her Cuba Libre. She was looking at people going in and out of the pub. Teenagers were trying to fool the bartender into thinking they were old enough to drink. They kept arguing, but she knew López wouldn’t fall for it. She sipped a mouthful and nearly choked. It was too early for alcohol.

  “What’s that wince? Cocktail’s not good?” López asked.

  “No,” she said distractedly. “I mean yes. Yes, it is good.”

  “What’s up then?” he laughed.

  “I’m bored.”

  “You should watch TV tonight,” López said mysteriously.

  “Why do you say that?” She frowned as she tried to decipher the bartender’s expression. He didn’t answer. He just smiled at her. “Seriously, what’s on TV tonight?”

  “There might be a new jewel in town.”

  “Really? Where? When?” She was suddenly vigorous, staring at him with eager eyes. He laughed at her childish reaction. She tried to regain seriousness, but when she looked at his wide smile, she couldn’t help smiling herself. “What channel?” she asked.

  As soon as she got home, Farrell switched the TV on. She was twenty minutes early for the show, so she ate some pizza while waiting. Finally, the show started with a ridiculous jingle. Some useless gibberish introduced the different people; a French artist named Duval, a specialist of jewelry, and Mr Spears. Farrell started up when she saw it. The ruby was absolutely beautiful. And according to that Taylor woman, absolutely priceless as well.

  “I want it,” she decided.

  Farrell pulled up her long black hair and tied it with a pencil. She went to her room to fetch her laptop. Back into the living room, she sat comfortably on her couch. She crossed her legs, opened her laptop, and typed Adrien Duval on Google. He was famous indeed. Pictures showed a man with long untidy blond hair and a huge stupid smile. He must have been around forty. His art was very original, sometimes even a bit weird. He gathered rare stones, precious or not, and carved them so they would look like flowers or animals. Farrell thought that the animal ones weren’t very realistic. Sometimes, you couldn’t even make out what animal was represented. Yet, the flowers were quite nice. Tulips, roses, amaranths, they all looked great.

  Farrell looked up at the TV. Spears was boasting about his art gallery. Soon to be the most famous in the whole city of New York, he was saying. Farrell googled him too. She knew the gallery, but she’d never been there. Apparently, there was a permanent collection. Mostly art works by unknown artists. And, once in a while, the museum hosted a foreign artist—right now, it was Duval—and held an exhibition of their latest work for two days, or sometimes a week.

  The ruby was floating among Farrell’s thoughts. The flower shape, the bright red glow, the tiny cuts and imperfections. Farrell could hardly think of those as imperfections; they were quite the contrary, they were what made the ruby perfect.

  The jewel reminded Farrell of a man she had known a few years back. That man would always wear huge jewels around his wrists. Some of them were fake, but Farrell clearly remembered a nice round ruby inserted in a golden flower, which hung from a thin chain. As soon as she saw the man, Farrell grew interested in him. Maybe even a bit too much. Her feelings had eventually prevented her from stealing the jewel. She’d given up on the golden flower with its ruby, because she didn’t want to deceive her friend.

  Although the whole story was some years old, it was hardly forgotten. And that, for a reason far more important than jewelry. For the first time of her life, Farrell had given more importance to love than to jewels. Since then, she’d promised herself to draw a perfect line between her private life and her business occupations. And she was never to cross that line.

  Farrell untied her hair and massaged her temples. She put her laptop aside, got up lazily and went to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. She put way too much sugar in it, as always, and moved the spoon around the mug, leaving the mark of an eight in the brown liquid.

  As she went back to the living room, she thought of her last robbery. She’d successfully stolen a few tiny diamonds five months back. She sold them at a good price and wasn’t even suspected of theft at any moment. The best operation of her life, no doubt.

  She’d always escaped the police. Yet, clients who suspected the gems to be stolen tended to refuse the offer. What Farrell did for a living was bad, but she was good at it. However amiable and warmhearted with her friends, she could become as cold as ice in a minute and steal unscrupulously from the richest people. She soon developed a whole circle of influent acquaintances—like Rafael López—and she’d find buyers for the jewels at any time.

  A look at the clock informed Farrell that it was almost ten. The TV show had been over for a while. But Farrell was so lost in thought that she didn’t see time flow. She got up. She decided she had to go out and see people tonight. She took her phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me,” Farrell said.

  “Jules, I know it’s you. Your name was on my screen.” Her friend, Sarah, laughed. She always told Farrell the same thing, but she didn’t seem to get the point.

  “Yeah well… What are you up to tonight?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I have to watch over my little sis.”

  Farrell sighed. “Never mind then.”

  “You know what, I’ve got nothing planned for tomorrow” Sarah said. “We can go have a drink in the afternoon if you like.”

  Farrell agreed, wished Sarah a good night, and hung up. She wouldn’t see her friend tonight, but at least she managed to schedule a meeting before the end of the week. Sarah worked at Spears Art Gallery and Farrell thought she might give her some insight about the place. Maybe there were easily accessible windows or unguarded doors through which it would be effortless to enter. If that was the case, breaking into the museum would be child’s play. And if not, well… Farrell preferred not to think about the alternative. Thinking about it would mean acknowledging its possibility. She was optimistic and, more important, her experience had shown that there was always a weak point in the patrol of sentinels. She would get in anyway, but being able to deceive guards without breaking a sweat was even better.

  Although she was happy to have planned to see Sarah, Farrell still wished to go out. She phoned a few other friends and they finally resolved to meet about thirty minutes later in their favorite pub in Manhattan. Farrell hurried into her bedroom. She put on a short dress, combed her hair, slipped into her high-heeled shoes. But when looking at herself in the mirror, she winced. The dress was blue with a gold stripe along the left side. It was too tight, too short, too blue.

 

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