Wicked Intentions(15)
He narrows his eyes at me. “How do you know she climbed up?”
I smack myself on the forehead. “You’re right. She took the invisible jet.”
Connor warns, “Ryan.”
Ignoring him, I cross my arms over my chest and level the officer with a hard stare. “Okay. Here’s every fuckin’ thing you need to know in a nutshell. I met the woman who calls herself Angeline Lemaire yesterday at the pool bar at approximately fifteen hundred hours. No, I didn’t know her before that. No, I’m not an accomplice. No, I didn’t know anything about her plans. We went to dinner with my friends, including this big ape here, and then came back to my room.
“What happened after that is none of your damn business, except that she doped me with something she put in a bottle of orange juice.” I jerk my head toward the bed. “The empty’s on the nightstand. You can test for residue. My guess is Rohypnol, modified with somethin’ to make it work faster. Took me down in thirty seconds. When I woke up, you were outside my door.”
Though it hurts my ego something fierce to admit it, I continue. “She obviously targeted me because I was stayin’ in this particular room. If it were next week, you’d be talkin’ to some other dude. End of story.”
The officer is busy trying to think of something to say next when one of his compadres lifts a high-heeled red shoe from the floor. The platform sole is broken off. Examining it, he turns to me. “You two have a fight?”
Connor speaks before I can. “He doesn’t fight with broads, only the husbands he didn’t know they had. But that’s a nice little hidey-hole carved in there. Perfect size for some cash.”
“Or a flash drive,” I say, grudgingly impressed. “Or a compass, an ID—”
“A map,” he finishes, looking at me. His sharp gaze flicks to the bedsheets, then to the view of the verdant hills. He turns to the head cop. “Lemme guess. She didn’t check out of the hotel. She hasn’t been seen since she left dinner with Ryan. You don’t have any video feed of her leaving the property.”
The cop looks uncomfortable. “Correct. The hotel doesn’t have security cameras pointing up at the outside of the building—”
“Hotels never do,” I interrupt. “Security cameras are always trained down, toward doors and hallways. Any thief worth his salt would know that.” Though I’m still mad as fuck, I can’t help but smile. “Her salt.”
I can tell by the cop’s expression that he’d really like to throw my ass in jail, but he must’ve already decided I’m just some dumb lackey Angeline used to make her play.
A lightbulb goes on over my head. “Wait. You know who she is, don’t you?”
He takes off his cap and scratches his head. “I can’t comment on that,” he says, sounding weary.
Connor scoffs. “Oh come on! You wouldn’t have even let me in this room if this was a real interrogation.”
He scowls. “No one ever said anything about an interrogation!”
An odd combination of elation and anger electrifies my skin. “She’s hit this hotel before?”
He looks back and forth between Connor and me, then obviously decides he might as well tell us, because he sighs heavily and starts spilling his guts.
“No. But I’ve got a friend in Interpol. Called him as soon as I was notified by Prince Khalid that his safe had been broken into while he was asleep. I knew it had to be a pro if he—she—could get past the armed security personnel posted outside the door and the biometric thumbprint scanner on the safe, and also be quiet enough not to awaken the prince or his bride for however long it took to finish the job.”
He makes a face. “Though admittedly the prince is known to imbibe more than what could be considered a reasonable amount, and his wife said she fell asleep to a white noise app because of all his snoring.” He turns to Connor. “Have you heard of Brain.fm? The princess claims it’s very relaxing—”
“Cut to the fuckin’ chase, man!” I shout.
He stares at me for a moment. “Let’s just say this woman is on pretty much everyone’s most wanted list.”
“What’s her name?” I demand.
He lifts a shoulder. “Who knows? She’s got fifteen known aliases, probably plenty more that aren’t known. Been doing big jobs for a long time. Jewels, mainly. The occasional piece of art. Never been caught.”
I scoff. “How could a thief who looks like a supermodel never be caught? She stands out like a fuckin’ neon sign!”
“If you saw the Interpol file, you might think differently.”
“Disguises?” Connor sounds doubtful.
“Up the wazoo. Eyewitnesses describe her as anywhere from twenty to fifty years old. Five foot four to five foot ten. Blonde, redhead, short black hair, dreadlocks. Blue eyes, brown eyes, green eyes. Walks with a limp. Walks with no limp. Has a lisp. Has an Irish accent. French. Italian. Spanish. You name it. She’s no one. She’s everyone. She’s impossible to pin down. Apparently she’s known in criminal circles as The Golden Hand. But my Interpol friend says law enforcement calls her the Dragonfly.”
Thinking of her gorgeous naked body trembling under my touch, I murmur, “Because of the tattoo.”
The officer looks at me sharply. “Tattoo?”
“The dragonfly on her left hip.”
His brows slowly rise.
I realize too late that this is new information to him. In spite of my gaffe, a flush of something like pride heats my neck.
If law enforcement doesn’t know she has a tattoo, that means none of her marks have ever reported it. And if none of her marks have ever reported it, that means none of them ever saw her naked.
Goddamn. She was telling the truth about never having one-night stands!
I instantly forgive her for everything.
“No,” says the officer. “It’s because she leaves a drawing of a dragonfly somewhere at every job she pulls off. It’s her calling card. The one in Prince Khalid’s suite was scrawled on the bathroom mirror with his wife’s lipstick.”
“She wants everyone to know it was her,” I say.
“Or someone,” Connor adds ominously.
We lock eyes. I know him well, and right now I know he’s thinking Angeline’s calling card isn’t meant as a taunt to the police. It’s not an ego thing. It’s a message.
But for who? And why?
Watching my face, the police officer chuckles. “Don’t take it personally, Mr. McLean. She’s duped some of the most sophisticated security personnel on the planet. She’s a professional thief. The best in the business, by all accounts.”
Connor claps his hand on my shoulder. He’s chewing the inside of his cheek again. “Besides, I’m sure she thought you were real cute.”
“Fuck off,” I say cheerfully, because I wasn’t a one-night stand.
The officer who was holding Angeline’s shoe is now holding her red dress, retrieved from the floor. He’s fingering it with his brows pulled together. “Got something here, chief.”
“What is it?”
The officer removes a Swiss knife from his black utility belt, snaps open the blade with his thumb, and works it against a seam in the waist of the dress. The fabric gives way easily. He removes a small metal object, winking in the light. Looking surprised, he holds it up.
Connor and I speak in unison. “Handcuff key.”
The chief looks at me as if for confirmation. “She sewed a handcuff key into her dress?”
“In case she was apprehended and had to escape from cuffs.” I shake my head, more impressed by the second. “It’s fuckin’ brilliant.”
Another officer standing next to the television console opens the small beaded handbag Angeline left behind and dumps its contents onto the wood surface. Sifting through it with the tip of a pen, he catalogues his findings out loud.
“One rake pick. One tension wrench. One torch lighter. One folding tactical knife. One metal shim. Four plastic zip ties. One unmarked hotel keycard, possibly a master. And one lipstick.”
He picks up the gold tube of lipstick and looks at the label on the bottom. “It’s called Lady Danger.”
A grin spreads over Connor’s face. “I like this girl.”
In spite of how completely fucked up this entire situation is, I grin back. “Me too, brother. Me too!”
The chief rolls his eyes. “You guys are idiots.”
Ten
Mariana
Specializing in buying and selling rare coins, gold, jewels, diamonds, and valuables since 1979, Mallory & Sons Heritage Auctions has retail boutiques in most of the largest cities in the world. But the London boutique is the one I always visit upon completion of an assignment.
And not because it’s company headquarters.
Ignoring the cold and the gray drizzle, I stand across the street for a few minutes before going in and just look.
The shop is charming glimpsed through its beveled-glass windows. It’s brightly lit, stuffed with antiques, the walls crowded with original oils by artists of all levels of fame and importance, as well as the occasional exquisite forgery to be sold to a nouveaux riche collector more concerned with impressing his friends than demanding certified provenance.