I scroll until I see one of Mr. Beaumont on his boat with his wife and daughter.
Red hair. Wild red hair blows across her face, partially obscuring her brilliant green eyes. Her lips are drawn into a smile as she tries to push her hair back. Her parents are stiff. Posed. Mannequins. In contrast, she nearly leaps out of the picture.
Saige Juliette Beaumont.
I hadn’t accounted for her in my original plans, but now I have to reevaluate everything. I need to get to Mr. Beaumont, and she just might be the way to do it.
Two
I meet Cash down the street from his apartment. Unlike me, he enjoys the finer things in life and has decided to occupy a place in the nicer part of the city.
“You look wrecked,” he says by way of a greeting. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a compliment.
“Thanks,” I say and he laughs, his blue eyes sparkling. Cash is a contradiction of a person. Tall and built like a wall of bricks, he’s one of the happiest people I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. When we walk down the street, people seem to cower away from him, but he just smiles at them as if it doesn’t bother him one bit. The ancient leather jacket that belonged to his grandfather adds to his ferocious image. Cash can act the part of muscled tough when push comes to shove. But as soon as the act is over, he’s back to his sweet self.
“Have you heard from Baz?” I ask as we walk back to his place. We never meet in front of his apartment, and soon we’ll part company and enter the building separately. You can never be too careful.
“Yes. He’s out. Completely extracted. Told the girl he was married.” This makes me laugh.
“How did she take it?” Knowing Baz, he was none too tactful going about it. Words weren’t his strong suit.
“He’s sporting a lovely mark on his cheek and his balls are a little sore, I think,” Cash says as we part company, him to walk the short way and me to take the long back around the building. It’s a risk every time we meet and it’s one of the reasons we move so much. We’ve been here for about eight months so far.
Everything we do is calculated, planned. Nothing spontaneous, if we can help it. We can’t take any risks, which is why I changed out of my business attire and into a ripped pair of jeans and baggy hoodie. None of my clients would recognize me like this, because they wouldn’t give me a second look. That’s the beauty of what we do.
“What the hell is that?” I ask when Cash lets me in. Occupying an enormous space in his dining room is what looks like an old-fashioned writing desk.
“What the fuck does it look like? It’s an antique writing desk. Belonged to a famous writer.” He doesn’t tell me who, but I know, without a doubt, that he’s got a certificate of authenticity and has verified that it’s the genuine article. Among other things, Cash is an antique collector. It’s a bitch whenever we have to move, because he won’t leave anything behind, and some of his pieces are fucking huge and heavy.
“What are you going to do with a writing desk?” I ask. I can’t picture Cash squeezing his large body into a chair and sitting at the desk composing letters.
“I’m not going to do anything with it. I’m going to admire it.” He stares at the desk as if to illustrate his point.
“Is this you admiring?” I ask.
“Shut up. Do you want a beer?” He pops the tops and hands one to me. I savor a foamy sip and we head to his office.
Cash’s office is bigger than his bedroom, mostly because we store so much crap here. There’s also a small gym in the corner of the room. Cash might have been born with more muscle than the average man, but he still has to work out.
Cash’s burner phone makes a noise and he looks down at it.
“Baz is on his way with Row, Track and Hardy,” he says, listing the other members of our group. We don’t have an official name, because we aren’t cartoon characters, but sometimes Cash tries to come up with one. So far, they’re all fucking lame.
“I was thinking about beating his ass, but it sounds like that secretary did it for me,” I say as Cash goes to the fridge for three more beers. We’re going to go through quite a few before the evening is out. I don’t know why he just doesn’t put a fridge in the office and be done with it.
The other three arrive with pomp and circumstance. Well, Row, Track and Hardy do. Baz lumbers in behind them, a red mark across his cheek and a glare in his eyes. Cash busts out laughing the minute he walks in. Normally, this would be cause for Baz to get violent, but Cash gets away with everything.
“How’s your pride?” I ask as he takes a beer from Cash and settles on the couch next to the others, who are giggling like schoolgirls. I glare at them, but they don’t stop.
“Fucking fantastic. Never been better,” he says with a scowl. “She wasn’t that great in bed anyway.” He’s such a liar. He’d gone on and on when he’d first started going with her about how great she was in the sack.
“Well, if you get lonely, let me know,” Track says with a wink. He’s gay and flirts with whomever he likes. Baz just sips his beer in silence.
Our group runs the gamut, from Cash the dark-haired tank; to Baz with his fair hair and stormy eyes; to Track with his pretty, pretty face; to Hardy and Row, brothers with matching brown mops of hair and opposite personalities.
We’re an odd bunch, but we all have a common goal. Humans can get along surprisingly well when they all have something to work toward.
“I still say we need a gavel,” Cash says as I stand. I might not be the oldest in the group, but I’m the one who started this.
“Shut the fuck up,” I say. “Who’s got a report for me?”
Hardy raises his hand. He’s one of our most useful assets, due to his memory. If he reads something, or hears it, he’ll remember it forever. I can ask him what he had for breakfast three years ago on a specific date and he’ll know. It’s fucking annoying when you’re trying to settle an argument, though.
“So far from 137 we’ve got exactly two million three hundred and thirty-four thousand. And twenty-one cents,” he adds at the end. We always give each of our marks’ numbers, instead of names. Hardy has them all memorized, but it takes the rest of us a second to catch up.
“That’s which one?” I ask.
“Mr. A,” he says and it all clicks in my brain.
“Excellent. So what are we up to, total?”
“Nearly three hundred million,” he rattles off. Hardy is also our bookkeeper, naturally.
“Does anyone need supplies? Now would be a good time to ask. No, Cash, I won’t entertain anything ridiculous today.” I see him open his mouth and then close it. He’s always trying to get something and claim it’s for the job. He’ll probably try to claim the writing desk is a work expense. But unlike the IRS, he can’t write it off with us.
“Fine,” he says, crossing his arms, making his muscles bulge.
“I need to make a run,” Row says. We’ve got codes for everything. This means he needs to buy drugs. When it comes to getting information, sometimes that’s the best way to do it. Greases the wheels a bit.
“How’s our stash?” I ask Cash and he goes to check. We’ve got this place outfitted with plenty of hiding places, so a cursory search would turn up nothing.
“Low,” he says when he comes back. “Very low.”
“Okay, just let Hardy know how much you need.” Row might have been a liability if it weren’t for Hardy. He’s honest and trustworthy enough for both of them, and Row would never betray his brother.
Track is next, with a report that he might have a new potential mark for us that he’ll be sending my way. He works at one of the most exclusive country clubs and has a way with people and getting information out of them. He’s also not opposed to using sex to get information, something that has come in handy more than once. It’s shocking how many married men are quick to bang the pretty boy who brings them drinks at the club.