Perfect Scoundrels (Heist Society #3)(49)

“No. You won’t. I don’t think your kind of criminal ever actually calls the authorities.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Kat tried to pull his hand off of her throat, push herself past him; but his other hand flew over her head, crashing into the door and holding it solidly in place.

“I said,” he spoke slowly, “show me some respect.”

Trembling, Kat watched the way the sweat gathered at his brow, his face red and flushed, as he fumed like an animal that was cornered and beginning to fight. He’s desperate, Kat thought. Then, just that quickly, she realized, No, he’s dangerous.

“What?” he asked, then bit back an evil, bitter laugh. “Did you honestly believe that no one in Scooter’s life knew where he was going—what he was doing? Didn’t you ever wonder why no member of the Hale family ever asked or cared when the golden boy was halfway around the world…with you?”

“I know my boyfriend from school,” Kat said. But again the man laughed.

“I thought you’d be a much better liar. Aren’t all thieves liars? Isn’t that how you stole the Cleopatra Emerald? Was that fun for you? It looked like fun from where I was standing.”

Kat thought about the empty file labeled Scooter and finally knew what had lain inside it. They weren’t Hale’s secrets. They were hers. And this man seemed to know every one.

“What do you want with me?”

He let go of her neck, but didn’t leave.

“Don’t think you’ve won this game, Kat. Do not make the mistake of believing that I haven’t seen you and your family’s interference coming from a mile away. Of course, ‘Uncle Reginald’”—he held up his fingers and made mock quotations around the words—“was a nice touch. Some might even say inspired. But I will win, Miss Bishop. In fact, I have already won. You just can’t see it yet.”

“No. You can’t see,” Kat told him. “You’re going to lose.”

He was bigger, stronger, crazier, but that didn’t matter. Not right then. Because Kat finally had the home court advantage, and she felt a new kind of strength rushing through her. All pretense was gone. She didn’t have to lie, to pretend she was anything other than a seasoned thief talking to a newcomer to the game.

Garrett looked across the alley.

“It can be done,” Kat said, reading his mind, knowing he was thinking about the bank that had never been robbed. She whispered, “And I’m going to do it.”

“Oh, watch what you say, Kat. It would be a shame if everything I knew were to find its way to…say…the Henley.”

He reached to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear, and Kat trembled. She remembered the look on Arturo Taccone’s face as the gangster threatened everyone she’d ever loved; the smile the grifter called Maggie had given her when locking Kat inside a tiny room. She’d seen a lot of very bad people up close in her short life, but there was something about Garrett in that moment that scared her. Greed had made him crazy and reckless, and he was going to take Kat down with him.

“I have cleaned up my last Hale family mess, Miss Bishop. You and your little boyfriend are on your own as far as I’m concerned.” He laughed again. “Let’s see how far you make it now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kat blurted, but the man simply turned.

“You’ll see, my dear. You will see.”





Over the course of the next twelve hours, Kat made twenty-one phone calls to six different continents. (Uncle Lester was doing a job off the coast of Antarctica and was very adamant that he not be disturbed for any reason.)

There was Uncle Sal in Rio; the Johnson twins, who were out on parole near Sydney. She personally composed a telegram for Uncle Marco (his preferred method of communication) and left a note in a dead letter drop for Uncle Felix, who had sworn off telephones after a particularly nasty MI5 experience in ’92.

But there was one member of the family for whom no call or note or message would do, so that was how Kat found herself in Venice.

Spring had already come to St. Mark’s Square as Kat walked alone that morning. Warm breezes blew off the Mediterranean, carrying tourists from cruise ships and exotic ports of call. But Kat couldn’t let herself be distracted, not by the high-end boutiques that lined the narrow alleys, not even by the smell of pasta or massive displays of fresh fruit that filled the stalls of the open-air markets. She wasn’t there as a tourist, and yet she was far from a native. So Kat walked into the cathedral, trying to find some peace.

Venice was sinking—everybody knew it. The tiles on the floor of St. Mark’s Cathedral rose and fell like the waves in the bay, unwilling to give up without a fight. Overhead, a beautiful mosaic of apostles and saints smiled down. It was a house of miracles, so Kat said a silent prayer, needing one of her own.

A group of tourists passed by, snapping pictures, and Kat stood silently, taking it all in. She saw a man leaving the confessional, his dark robes billowing behind him as he walked, and she chased after him.

He was already in the square when she summoned her courage and yelled, “Father!”

The priest stopped and turned, then smiled when Kat said, “Hi, Daddy.”

“So it’s true.” He draped an arm around her shoulder as they walked. “My baby girl is setting up her first Big Store. You’re growing up.”