The security alarm panel was located between the entryway to the bath and the ornate headboard of the bed, beside a lamp that rose about three feet from a side table.
Sola pivoted in place. Walked forward four steps. Felt for the foot of the bed—found it.
Sidestep, one, two, three. Forward down the flank of the king-size mattress. Sidestep one to clear the table and the lamp.
Sola reached out her left hand….
And there was the security panel, right where it needed to be.
Flipping the cover off, she used a penlight that she kept between her teeth to illuminate the circuitry. Taking out another device from her backpack, she hooked wires up to wires, intercepted the signals, and with the help of a miniature laptop and a program that a friend of hers had developed, created a closed loop within the alarm system such that, as long as the router was in place, the motion detectors she was about to set off wouldn’t register.
As far as the motherboard was concerned, nothing was going to be amiss.
Leaving the laptop hanging by its connection, she walked out of the room, hit the hall, and took the stairwell down to the first floor.
The place was decorated to within an inch of its life, perpetually ready for a magazine shoot—although, of course, Benloise protected his privacy far too carefully to ever have his digs photographed for public consumption. On fleet feet, she passed through the front receiving hall, the parlor to the left, and went into his study.
Going around in the semi-darkness, she would have much preferred to strip off her white-on-white camo parka and snow pants—doing this in her black bodysuit was a cliché that was nonetheless practical. No time, though, and she was more worried about being sighted outside in the winter landscape than here in this empty house.
Benloise’s private workspace was, like everything else under this roof, more stage set than anything functional. He didn’t actually use the great desk, or sit on the mini-throne, or read any of the leather-bound books on the shelves.
He did, however, walk through the space. Once a day.
In a candid moment, he’d once told her that before he left each night, he strolled through his house looking at all his things, reminding himself of the beauty of his collections and his home.
As a result of that insight, and some other things, Sola had long extrapolated that the man had grown up poor. For one, when they spoke in Spanish or Portugese, his accent belied lower-class pronunciations ever so subtly. For another, rich people didn’t appreciate their things like he did.
Nothing was rare to the rich, and that meant they took stuff for granted.
The safe was hidden behind the desk in a section of the bookcases that was released by a switch located in the lower drawer on the right.
She’d discovered this thanks to a tiny hidden camera she’d placed in the far corner during that party.
Following her triggering the release, a three-by-four-foot cutout in the shelving rolled forward and slid to the side. And there it was: a squat steel box, the maker of which she recognized.
Then again, when you’d broken into more than a hundred of the damn things, you got to know the manufacturers intimately. And she approved of his choice. If she had to have a safe, this was the one she’d get—and yes, he’d bolted it to the floor.
The blowtorch she took out of her backpack was small, but powerful, and as she ignited the tip, the flame blew out with a sustained hiss and a white-and-blue glow.
This was going to take time.
The smoke from the burning metal irritated her eyes, nose, and throat, but she kept her hand steady as she made a square about a foot high and two feet across in the front panel. Some safes she was able to blow the doors off of, but the only way in with one of these was the old-fashioned way.
It took forever.
She got through, though.
Placing the heavy door section aside, she bit down on the end of her penlight again and leaned in. Open shelving held jewelry, stock certs, and some gleaming gold watches he’d left within easy reach. There was a handgun that she was willing to bet was loaded. No money.
Then again, with Benloise, there was so much cash everywhere, it made sense he wouldn’t bother having the stuff take up safe space.
Damn it. There was nothing in there worth only five thousand dollars.
After all, on this job, she was merely after what she was fairly owed.
With a curse, she sat back on her heels. In fact, there wasn’t one damn thing in the safe under twenty-five thousand. And it wasn’t like she could break off half of a watchband—because how in the hell could she monetize that?
One minute passed.
A second one.
Screw this, she thought as she leaned the panel she’d cut out against the side of the safe and slid the shelving back into place. Rising to her feet, she looked around the room with the penlight. The books were all collectors’ editions of first-run antique stuff. Art on the walls and the tables was not just super-expensive, but hard to turn into cash without going underground…to people Benloise was intimately connected to.