Before the Dawn (16 page)

A little.

Four wide concrete stairs, with a huge concrete lion presiding over either side, led to a small landing in front of a formidable green door (it looked to Max like a big dollar bill) with a fancy brass knob and above that a centered, ornate brass knocker. Thankfully, the porch light was not on.

Large dark-curtained windows, each about thirty inches wide, bookended the door, and for a brief second Max considered just breaking one, climbing in, and kicking the shit out of those security boys . . . just for practice . . . just for fun. . . .

Pleasing though the notion was, Max thought of Moody (“Only amateurs take unnecessary chances on a score”), and she withdrew her switchblade from her jacket pocket and eased its tip into the latch of the big green door. Less than ten seconds later, that oversized dollar bill yawned open, and Max silently started to count.

Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight . . .

She stepped inside the entryway, and was swallowed by the darkness of the slumbering house; her night vision would kick in soon. She folded the knife, slipped it away, the world in here so silent she heard only the ticking of a few clocks, her own breathing, and the counting in her head.

Twenty-five, twenty-four . . .

The keypad was on the wall to her right, each touchpad conveniently aglow, a red light shining in the right bottom corner, a green light in the left, with a copper-colored window to display the code above the numbered pad. She'd been correct: ten digits. Typically, a four-number code.

Twenty-two, twenty-one . . .

Her extraordinary eyesight determined which of these keys—four of them: 1, 3, 7, 8—had wear; the code would be twenty-four combinations thereof. . . .

Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen . . .

Her hands flew over the keyboard, her eyes, ears, and brain working in concert at a pace only nanoseconds slower than a computer.

Ten, nine . . .

Eleven combinations tried.

Eight, seven . . .

Seventeen tried.

Six, five, four . . .

Finally the correct combo kicked in and the red light blinked green. Thinking,
It would have been more fun to just break a window,
she smiled nonetheless with satisfaction, touched a button marked
IN
, and the light blinked back red.

The house was secure . . .

. . . at least that's what Jared Sterling's security staff would be thinking.

Max's night vision was in full force now. She was in a foyer larger than most homes. The floor was marble (pale yellow in the photos on-line), the walls plaster, and the furnishings here, and elsewhere in the house, were Mission-style, some of them vintage pieces, including some Frank Lloyd Wright originals. She had entered a starkly beautiful, masculine world where every item, however mundane, might be a valuable objet d'art.

Straight ahead a staircase wide enough to accommodate ten people abreast led to an upper floor where a long hallway would extend to either end of the house. Glancing up at the landing, Max could make out a couple of dark wood doors, ironically making the second floor, with its plaster walls, look like a hallway in an inexpensive hotel.

On the left side of the staircase, maybe halfway up, was a small wall-mounted video camera trained on the entryway.

To Max's left and right, closed doors led to living rooms and billiards rooms, dens, and a few other rooms whose functions were not spelled out in her online research. She had tried to find plans for the house, but even with her hacking of both the security company and Sterling's own firm, plus the web site of the architect who'd built the castle, the plans for Sterling's home remained elusive, apparently guarded as if they were a government secret. What she did know, Max owed
Architectural Digest
. . . .

The curtains on the windows bordering the front door were heavy masculine maroon brocade.
Pretty fancy,
Max thought,
but then my digs run more to taped drywall and sheet plastic.
Sterling could afford to live well, and his quality of life was reflected in the quality of his things. If she'd been able to, Max would have backed a moving van to that front door, and spent the rest of the night hauling enough swag out of this joint to retire at nineteen.

Hugging the walls, she worked her way around the foyer till she was on the left side of the staircase, near the camera. Staying low, she climbed the stairs to the camera, got behind it and carefully unscrewed it from its mount, then unscrewed the coaxial cable from the back, all the while listening for the sound of pounding feet, a sure sign she'd been spotted.

She heard nothing. Just those same few clocks . . . and of course the steady beat of her heart.

Next, from a vest pocket, she took out a device much like a small Tazer, touched it to the cable, fired it, sending a high-voltage burst through the cable. This should short out the entire video system.

Now
she heard feet pounding through the house, voices, too, whispers so as not to alert any intruder too quickly. She replaced the camera on its wall mount and hoped the security cam would look normal enough to pass a rapid inspection. Melting into the shadows behind one of the brocade curtains, she watched as four men, all in shirts and ties, converged in the foyer.

Two of these spiffy security guards had pistols drawn, .38 Colt Specials, while the other two carried automatic weapons, Heckler & Koch MP7A submachine guns. A negative wave of emotion ran through Max, momentarily breaking her remarkable self-control.

Guns made her react like that—but it was not fear . . .

. . . and she knew how to use such weapons herself, proficiently in fact; only, since her sib Eva's death, she could hardly stand to touch the damn things.

Each man wore an earphone and . . . was that? . . . She looked closer, the cat's eyes working their magic—yes, each also had a tiny microphone peeking out from the end of his sleeve. Sterling would seem to be serious about protecting his possessions: suits and ties aside, these boys were six feet tall or better, ranging from midtwenties to early forties, two white, one black, one Hispanic, apparently all in shape, their manner professional, their look hard-core, that chiseled emotionless quality you found only in career soldiers . . . or mercenaries.

Max smiled; she felt a tingle of excitement. . . .

Not that looking at the men frightened her, or intimidated her in any way. But she knew that if the master of the house had gone to this much trouble to protect something, that something must really be worth protecting . . . something more, even, than a highly valuable painting like the Grant Wood. Maybe, just maybe, she would make an even bigger haul here than she had imagined.

And, too, she kind of liked the challenge of being up against worthy opponents. . . .

Tall, with a graying crew cut, the oldest of the quartet took charge; he had narrow colorless lips, dime-sized scars on either cheek, and—like Max—he wore black from head to toe . . . his shirt and tie included.

“Maurer,” the leader said, “upstairs.”

One of the guys carrying the MP7As—black, broad-shouldered, clean-cut, wearing a gold shirt with a striped tie—ran up the stairs right past the camera Max had used to disable the video system.

“Jackson,” the leader barked.

Also carrying an MP7A, Jackson identified himself to Max by stepping forward. Burly, white, the youngest of them, he looked like a college athlete attending an awards dinner in his too-tight white shirt and gray slacks with a red-and-blue-striped tie.

The leader said, “You start working the grounds.”

Jackson said, “Yes sir,” crisply military, and moved over to the keyboard, where he punched several buttons, the alarm light turning green. Once Jackson had gone outside, the fourth member of the team—a muscular young Hispanic in a light blue shirt, navy slacks, and navy tie—punched the
IN
button, once again setting the alarm.

Max turned her head to watch Jackson heading away from the house, holding her breath, just waiting for him to turn and look right at her, standing there in the window . . . but he did not. Soon the foggy front yard had swallowed him.

“Morales,” the leader said, his voice soft, “you go right, I'll go left.”

While the leader opened the door and entered the room on the left, Morales entered the room on the right. Through the second of the open doors, just before Morales closed it behind him, Max glimpsed a painting in a gold-leaf frame on the far wall.

She decided that was as good a place as any to start.

A minute ticked by. Stealing a look in the direction the leader had gone, then glancing up the stairs, Max satisfied herself neither man was headed back her way, not immediately anyway.

So she made her move.

She slipped from her hiding place and crept across the foyer; she opened the door slowly, carefully, quietly, peeked into the room . . .

. . . and didn't see Morales.

She eased in.

The room was large, almost . . . huge, more like something out of a museum than a house. High-ceilinged, with a beautifully polished hardwood floor and dark mahogany paneling, this was home to painting after painting, framed canvases covering all four walls of the windowless chamber, three and sometimes four rows of them, like fabulously expensive wallpaper. A few Mission-style chairs were positioned around the floor, but it was essentially bare, and—more important to Max—vacant.

Stepping farther into the gallery, she noted another door on the opposite wall at the far end. Morales had obviously entered, not seen anyone, and exited right out the other side, to check rooms beyond.

Max strolled up the middle of the room, gazing at the paintings on either side. Some she'd seen before in Moody's books, and in magazines and online; but others were strangers to her, though the styles were familiar and she could probably play pin-the-artist-on-the-painting. . . .

This was more than she could ever have imagined.

Again the thought of stealing enough to retire surfaced, but she wouldn't need a moving van to do it; she could cut canvas after canvas out of their frames, roll them up, and take the whole lot. If Moody's lessons on quality had served her well, then her eyes told her she wouldn't need Vogelsang to find Seth. She could
buy
an uptown detective agency; hell, she could buy
Manticore! . . .

This fantasy blipped across her mind, and then she banished it—too much time, too many risks; in this house, with those four armed security soldiers roaming, she could spend no longer thinking about such things. She needed to get her damn painting—and maybe one or two more—and get the hell out of Dodge.

The thief found her Grant Wood halfway down the right-hand wall. She did not fool around, jumping the alarm wire, pulling the painting down, and freeing it from its ornate antique gold
frame . . . which, she momentarily lamented, could have been sold for a good price, as well; but that would have made this package even more bulky than it was now.

The thirty inch by thirty-nine inch sheet of Masonite was heavy and hard, and perhaps she just should have abandoned it as her goal, and gambled on a few canvases; but this painting was a sure thing, an objective she'd researched well.

Plan and execute,
Moody would say;
improvise at your own risk. . . .

Max carefully slid the Wood into a zippered waterproof bag she'd carried in folded under her vest, and glanced around to see if she dared snatch one more prize, before the security boys came back.

As her eyes flicked from frame to frame, something in a corner at the far end of the room caught her attention—a pedestal on which perched a Plexiglas case about the size of a basketball, with something resting on black velvet inside. The only such display in the room, it had a temporary feeling, as if this had been arranged only until a better showcase could be found.

As she got closer—and finally began to comprehend just what it was she was beholding—her stomach wrenched, and she suddenly had the feeling that a nest of snakes was slithering down inside her. . . .

Sitting smugly on black velvet, much as it had back at the Hollywood Heritage Museum, was the Heart of the Ocean.

The air seemed somehow thinner now, and her breathing came in short, rapid gasps. Questions tumbled through her mind, like dominoes knocking into each other. . . .

How had it gotten here?

Had Sterling been Moody's buyer?

Or had some fence bought it from Moody and sold it to Sterling?

Sufficient time had passed, since the original theft, for either of those transactions to have taken place; and yet somehow Max couldn't understand how the necklace had gotten from Moody's pocket to this room, in this house. Something seemed . . . wrong.

Very wrong.

Her face felt hot, her stomach icy, and goose bumps of fear ran up her arms, something that had not happened since . . .
and she flashed on herself, in the woods, the night of the escape, fleeing Manticore, fleeing Lydecker
. . . .

“Beautiful, isn't it?” a warm voice asked from behind her.

And yet there was something cold about it.

In fact, the voice froze her, the zippered bag with the Grant Wood inside still dangling from her right hand, like an absurdly oversized purse.

It wasn't a voice belonging to any hired help: this was Jared Sterling's voice; she hadn't turned around yet, but she recognized it, from video clips she'd played on Kendra's computer.

Still looking at the lovely blue stone, she said, “Someone told me once . . . diamonds are a girl's best friend.”

“Wrong movie. . . . You want to put the painting down?”

Max shook her head slowly. “Not really. I worked pretty hard to get it.”

“As did I.”

A door opened, and another voice blurted: “Sir!”

“Ah—Morales. Take over, would you? I'm just having a glass of warm
milk . . . my ulcer again.”

Behind her, she heard a pistol cock.

“Try not to kill her, Morales,” the warm voice said. “She has a very nice ass.”