A Magnificent Crime

Book 2: AB&T Novel

by Kim Foster

Genres: Action & Adventure Romance; War & Military

Synopsis

Cat Montgomery is a natural-born thief with a special talent for stealth—or at least she thought so. Years ago, she stole from the diamond-hoarding businessman Albert Faulkner III, but he somehow figured out she was responsible. Now he wants revenge, and dares her to swipe the elusive Hope Diamond. If she fails the mission, he'll wreak bloody havoc on her loved ones. But the stakes are raised even higher when Cat discovers that stealing the Hope is not only an impossible task, it's a cursed one. . .

Meanwhile, Cat's boyfriend, FBI agent Jack Barlow, is tracking a fierce criminal known as the Gargoyle, running into Interpol and resistance among his agency. As he follows the trail to Paris, where Cat is, their missions entwine in ways neither of them would have suspected. . .

115,500 Words

Release date: June 5, 2014

Publisher: eKensington

Print pages: 384

Sample

Five minutes before everything fell apart, the job was going smoothly on a number of fronts. Specifically, the forty-seven-story hotel was proving easier to scale than its glass and concrete exterior had otherwise suggested. Also, it was a clear evening, which was a rare treat for springtime in Seattle. Best of all, scarcely any people were around. In my mind this meant one thing: fewer potential witnesses to a crime.

A situation that warmed my crooked little heart.

Halfway to the top, I paused on a ledge to readjust my footing. A breeze rose up and ruffled my hair. I gazed down at the twinkling lights of the city below and took a deep breath. This was going to be good.

I was climbing this building with one clear objective: to steal a particular set of emerald earrings I happened to know was, at that moment, tucked away in the penthouse suite.

I’d been casing the hotel for two weeks. I knew when the cleaning staff polished the floors and when they took their coffee breaks. I knew when the security guards ran their cross-checks and when they chatted with the cute delivery girl who pulled their eyes from the CCTV screens.

I also knew that the couple from New York who had arrived this Thursday would be attending the opera tonight. They had tickets to Verdi’s Rigoletto and the reception that followed. I knew Mr. Peabody would be ordering the lamb shanks for his supper, and I knew Mrs. Peabody would not be wearing her emerald earrings tonight, because she’d worn them to the symphony the night before. Besides, they clashed with the orange gown she’d selected for the evening’s affairs.

Ordinarily, I might have chosen an easier route to the penthouse. Something from the inside, specifically. But this couple had insisted on a security detail, a guard posted twenty-four-seven outside their suite. When planning a job, I always preferred the option that didn’t involve contact with other people. Physical barriers and technology could always be overcome; hero security guards who decided to get all suspicious about your chambermaid disguise were a far trickier matter.

Tonight was my last opportunity for this job, as this was a mere stopover for the Peabodys on their way from New York to Kuala Lumpur. They were headed to Malaysia to check on the Asian headquarters of their mom-and-pop business, a highly profitable human trafficking operation.

The thought made my stomach curdle. This job tonight was merely an assignment from my Agency, but I had to admit a certain vigilante pleasure at robbing such a repulsive pair.

My muscles burned as I climbed higher, breathing chilly air that smelled faintly of car exhaust and coffee. I was in my element. I was doing what I was born to do. Everyone’s got a talent, right? Mine happened to be a prescription-strength case of sticky fingers.

I didn’t view it as pathology; I was simply playing out my role in society. Every well-functioning civilization has its leaders and its followers. Its spenders and its savers. Its cops and its robbers.

My particular calling had revealed itself at a young age. I was stealthy, I had quick hands, and I was quiet. It didn’t take me long to put my skills to profitable use—something beyond the artful smuggling of a tampon to the girls’ room in junior high.

I was genetically destined to be a thief, but for me it was more than that. There was nothing I’d rather be doing.

I continued climbing the hotel. And then, about three-quarters of the way to the top, I began to feel the telltale signs of a highly unwelcome emotion. My pulse quickened, and my mouth grew dry.

I took a deep breath and tried to slow my heart rate. Not now. Ever since the London incident the previous year, strange things had been happening to me on the job.

During a minor jewelry shop heist two months ago, an uneasy chill had settled between my shoulder blades, and then I’d had difficulty breathing. I’d chalked it up to early springtime allergies. On the next job—while safecracking at a private estate—I’d experienced heart palpitations. I’d attributed that to too many lattes that day.

I focused on my breathing. Focused on the job at hand, visualizing the penthouse and the emerald earrings patiently awaiting my arrival up there. I swallowed and tried to quash the growing fear that was curling into the edges of my consciousness.

It was ridiculous. I’d done this kind of thing a hundred times. I had been a professional jewel thief for hire for my Agency for the past six years. I’d scaled buildings, leaped off moving trains, crawled through air vents countless times. There was always a tense edge, an awareness that my job was more dangerous than, say, a tax accountant’s. But it had never been a problem before.

And I would be damned if I was going to let it be a problem now.

I gritted my molars together and continued climbing the hotel, clutching on to cold concrete. I pushed myself up to reach for a handhold, and suddenly the memory of the last time I was clinging to the stone of a building came flooding back. It was London, and I was at the top of Big Ben, struggling with a bad guy named Sandor, grappling over a Fabergé egg.

Back to reality in Seattle, I squeezed my eyes tight and waited for the vision to subside. When it did, I forced myself onward.

The higher I climbed toward the penthouse, the more my arms and legs shook. I pushed through it. I was a professional, and I had a job to do. Somehow, I arrived at the top. I pulled my glass cutter out of my pack and made the dire mistake of looking down.

Visions of Sandor falling and screaming filled my mind. Images flickered, and for a moment, it was me plummeting instead. Smashing on the ground below, limbs twisted and broken. Head cracked open like a cantaloupe.

Something snapped. I couldn’t breathe. My heart galloped and threatened to punch through my chest wall. My head spun, and I clung to the wall.

I was having a full-blown panic attack.

I was suffocating. There wasn’t nearly enough air. I needed to get out of here, get off this ledge. I felt an irresistible urge to escape; my head filled with a commandment to get to safety. The earth tilted, and I felt like I was going to black out.

It will pass. I squeezed my eyes tight and pressed myself back against the cold concrete of the building. I waited, unable to move....

And then my phone rang. Or at least the wireless earpiece in my left ear did. After several rings I managed to reach a shaky hand to the small unit strapped to my hip to answer it. I knew this had to be important, because the Agency patched through only the most crucial calls when I was on the job.

“Catherine?” said a shrill voice, piercing through the pea-soup fog of my panic attack. “Are you there?”

My mother.

“I’m here,” I said weakly, the waves of terror slowly subsiding.

“Are you working? It sounds very loud there. Am I hearing traffic?” She didn’t bother waiting for an answer but continued with an exasperated sigh. “Do not tell me you are on the job. You know full well about your uncle’s retirement party. You are supposed to be here, and you are very late.” The young lady in that sentence was unspoken, but understood.

As supremely irritating as it was to have my mother call me while I was on a job—and Lord knows how she managed to convince them to put her through—there was a small piece of me that was thankful for the momentary distraction. It appeared to have helped drag me out of the well of my panic attack.

“I’m not going to make it to the retirement party, Mom.”

“Yes, well, I gathered that. I hope you at least had a decent meal before you left. You know how I feel about you working on an empty stomach. How you can possibly do the things you need to do on a few pieces of sushi and three cups of coffee, I have no idea. . . .”

I breathed deeply while she continued. The wind whistled around me, and I swallowed. It was time to get off this ledge and inside the hotel suite.

“I really have to go now, Mom. I’m not in a good spot—”

“And what does that mean? Has Templeton got you doing something dangerous? I hope they’re paying you enough. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before, but I just don’t think they value your work enough. Maybe if you got paid a little more, you could take fewer jobs, and that would give you more time to live like a regular human being.... Maybe you’d even clean your apartment once in a while and have time for family commitments, like retirement parties—”

“Mom! Hanging up now.” I disconnected the call. I would deal with the repercussions of that at a later time. I turned my attention to the task at hand, breaking into the penthouse.

I reached down for my gear and, unfortunately, discovered a whole new problem. In the throes of panic, I had dropped my glass cutter.

I had no way of getting inside this window. I was good and trapped forty-seven stories up.

The wind stirred, and I pressed myself to the window.

At this height, hotel windows don’t open. Smashing the glass was not an option; that would set off an alarm. Breaking glass has its own distinctive sound frequency, and intruder alarms are set to detect that frequency.

And I certainly wasn’t going to climb back down. I looked at the glass, trying to assess my options, working to suppress the panicky feeling crawling up my throat again.

I concentrated on studying the windows themselves. They were divided into two, with a smaller panel on the bottom and a larger picture-window viewing panel on top.

I pulled out my penknife and set about removing the rubber strip around the lower panel.

It took longer than I would have liked, but eventually, I got the stripping off and then, with just the right amount of pressure—more than required to open a jar of pickles, less than necessary to remove the plastic wrapping of a CD—pushed the glass forward into the room.

I clambered through the open window and collapsed on the floor. I breathed and reminded myself I was safe. For now.

I had never had a panic attack before. It was an entirely new experience, and it was one I did not relish. But I had to stop thinking about it. I needed to get my head in the game.

Fear is a luxury a professional thief cannot afford. Especially a fear of death. Yes, I’d been in tight spots before. And I’d been afraid, sure. But it had never been the kind of fear that paralyzed me. It had never stopped me from doing what I needed to do.

I exhaled and pushed the ledge out of my mind. I beelined for the bedroom in the suite. There were only a few places a pair of emerald earrings would be kept.

One, locked away in the room’s safe. Two, hidden in a jewelry box tucked in a drawer. But more likely? Option three, sitting in plain view right on the dresser.

Sure enough, on the mahogany dresser top, a diamond bracelet winked at me. A jade brooch beckoned. A lustrous black pearl necklace summoned me over. And as appealing as each of these jewels seemed, they were not on my list.

So I left them alone.

Instead, I reached for the earrings that lay beside them. Briolette-shaped gems, they were a vivid green, sparkling like the Emerald City, glimmering like magically frozen teardrops of the Wicked Witch of the West.

I snatched the earrings in one fluid swoop and stuffed them into my small velvet sack.

But now I had to get out. I went to the window and looked outside. I had climbed up, so surely I could climb back down. But I felt forced away from the edge, like there was a big hand on my chest pushing me back.

Still, I had to try. I crawled through the open window onto the ledge. I got halfway out. My heart galloped, and my head started spinning. Terror shredded the edges of my mind like a combine harvester. I lunged back inside and lay on the floor, breathing heavily.

This was bad. Very, very bad.

I knew I could do it. I knew I had the skills to do it. But that head knowledge didn’t seem to make any difference. It didn’t seem to hold any stock in the rest of my being, the one that was screaming with every fiber that I was going. To. Die.

I needed to find another way down.

I forced myself to stand and walk over to the hotel room door. And this was where things were going to get tricky. Because there was almost certainly a security system built into the hotel room door.

So now I was faced with the less common task of not breaking into a room, but needing to break out. Without drawing attention or being stopped by the security guard.

I checked my watch. Not much time. The Peabodys would be returning from the opera any minute.

I glanced at my outfit. Head-to-toe black Lycra. Great for staying hidden in the shadows when scaling buildings but a little too “jewel thief” in the elevator and the lobby of the Westin.

I returned to the bedroom and slipped over to Mrs. Peabody’s closet. Inside were gowns in every hideous color imaginable. And about six sizes too large. It would be very challenging to be inconspicuous like that. Didn’t the woman ever wear jeans? My kingdom for a nice, subtle pair of yoga pants.

And then, stuffed in the corner, I spotted a robe. A white, fluffy, otherwise nondescript hotel robe. Perfect.

Ostensibly, I could go down for a late-night swim. I grabbed the guest handbook from the desk and quickly scanned it. Pool opening hours: 7:00 a.m.–11:00 p.m. It was ten minutes before eleven.

Okay, a swim it was. But I didn’t have long.

I threw on the robe, pulled the black Lycra out of view on my arms and legs, and tucked all my hair inside a swim cap I found in the bathroom. I exchanged my sneakers for the hotel slippers at the bottom of the wardrobe. I found a small tote bag—which could easily double as a pool bag—and stuffed my sneakers in there, along with my climbing gear. And the earrings, of course, tucked safely inside their velvet sack.

So far so good. But things would get sticky from here. I needed to get out the hotel room door and down the elevator—ideally without being seen. Less optimally, observed but not suspected of doing anything amiss.

I inspected the door security panel. There was a touch pad for a key code, and buttons that controlled the settings. I needed to hack in and disable the whole thing.

The first task was identifying the numbers. Fortunately, I had a complete bag of tricks with me—the tools I brought with me on every job. Girl Scouts aren’t the only ones who know the value of being prepared. I pulled out my mini UV wand and illuminated the touch pad. Fingerprints smudged four of the numbers: one, three, eight, and nine. Now it was a matter of entering the various combinations. It took me a few long minutes, during which I imagined the Peabodys strolling through the door. At last, the panel emitted a polite double beep and clicked off.

I glanced back at the window through which I’d entered. It would be so easy. It was the best option for a clean escape. But the mere thought of climbing through that empty sky made me feel like I was going to vomit. Nope, I would have to go down the hard way.

And my next task was dealing with the security guard.

In casing the hotel, I had learned who was staying in the Governor Suite, the other accomodations on this floor. Paisley Shaw was a television personality, a notorious early riser. Surely she’d be in bed by now.

I encrypted my cell phone to conceal the originating number, then called the hotel front desk.

“I think something has been stolen from my room,” I said, making my voice suitably shrill. “This is Paisley Shaw, and I’m in the Governor Suite. I’m in my closet, and my laptop is not where I left it. I need you to send security in here right away. Tell him not to bother knocking, to just come right in. I’m searching the drawers now to see if anything else is missing.”

I squinted through the peephole in the door. The security guard was there, trying not to fall asleep on the chair in the corridor. I held my breath and crossed my fingers.

Then his walkie-talkie crackled to life. He picked it up, listened, and nodded. “I’ll check it out.”

As he disappeared down the corridor, I waited several seconds, then slipped out the door. Both Paisley Shaw and the guard were in for an unpleasant surprise shortly, but it couldn’t be helped.

I darted to the stairwell door. I raced down one flight, then left the stairwell to grab the elevator the rest of the way.

The exposure made my skin crawl more than conversations with insurance salesmen did.

Security cameras I could take care to avoid. Less predictable were witnesses. At this hour it was unlikely anyone would be in the corridors or the elevator. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I forced myself to stroll toward the elevators.

When sneaking around in a public place, there are two ways to go. One, you can skulk along quietly and sneakily. But this must be attempted only when you are absolutely positive you will not be seen. Because if you are caught, nothing looks more guilty.

The other way to go is walking purposefully, casually, like you’re doing absolutely nothing wrong. This, generally, is my preferred way to move about. It’s much easier to cover if someone asks you where you’re going. But it’s also far less likely that anyone will ask you in the first place.

If you keep yourself as non-memorable, as non-noteworthy as possible, you can slip through this life doing just about anything you please.

Inside the empty elevator, I pressed the CLOSE DOOR button and kept pressing it. Then I pressed the LOWER LEVEL button and did not let go until the elevator started to move downward. It’s an old police trick, commandeering an elevator. The elevator wouldn’t stop now until it reached the lower level.

The car glided all the way down, motor humming, a vanilla instrumental version of Van Halen tinkling softly.

The doors opened, and a dimly lit, blue paisley carpeted corridor stretched out ahead. A small sign pointed the way to the pool and exercise gym.

My escape from this hotel was getting closer; I could taste it.

The pool door led directly onto a deck, into a viewing area. I pushed the glass door open and walked into a powerful cloud of chlorine. The air echoed with the sound of a solo swimmer’s arms slapping rhythmically on the water’s surface. I ducked into the changing room. My plan was simple at this point. Lose the robe, escape out the window, and we’d be all done here.

And it was a good strategy. Except for one small issue. As I looked around, I noticed a distinct shortage of windows. Specifically, there were none. I did a quick mental review of the blueprint. Shit. The changing room was smack in the middle of the hotel. Solid walls all around.

Memo to self:


Fine. I’d have to walk out through the lobby. First, I needed a costume change; I couldn’t walk out wearing this robe. I looked immediately at the lockers. Perfect. I’d just take the clothes of the unlucky person who had come down to do a few laps.

I found the locker with the missing key. And picked the lock in approximately the time it takes to file my nails. I opened the door. I was going to be out of here in less than five—

Robe.

I stared at the sole item hanging in the locker. A white, fluffy hotel robe, the exact same one I was already wearing.

Crap. Not helpful. Not even a little bit.

Okay, I couldn’t exit the hotel in my robe. I couldn’t exit in my black Lycra. I couldn’t sneak out a window in the changing room. What was my next move here? I thought of the emerald earrings on my person, imagined being caught with them. I couldn’t let that happen.

Then I heard a faint clanging coming from the far side of the changing room. And the soft whirring of a machine. A treadmill?

The gym. There was a gym on the other side of these changing-room walls, and somebody was in there. Maybe, just maybe, that person had come down to the gym and changed out of regular clothes.

I entered the gym changing room, preparing to crack another locker. Instead, I was rewarded by the sight of a hoodie and sweats hanging from a hook.

I grabbed them. They were too big, but they would work fine. I replaced them with my robe.

I hesitated a second, then pulled out a wad of cash—the getaway funds I always carried. I separated several bills and slipped them into the pocket of the robe. It would be bad enough getting out of the shower after the gym with nothing to change into. The cash was my way of softening the blow.

I took the elevator up to the main floor—no rushing, no hijacking this time. The doors glided open onto a lobby that gleamed under glittering chandeliers. It smelled of floor polish and lavender. I strolled across the marble floor, past potted palm trees and plush lounge chairs, eyes pinned on the revolving doors. I was almost clear.

At that moment, a couple entered the hotel lobby, emerging through the revolving doors: a middle-aged, blowsy woman in a bright orange, flouncy gown and a gentleman who looked like he’d been stuffed into his suit. I’m not sure whose face was more pinched and sour. I recognized them instantly as Mr. and Mrs. Peabody. They were returning from the opera.

I stepped out of their path as they strode into the hotel, oblivious to anyone else. A faint smile played on my face. In two more steps I was inside the revolving doors, spinning my way to freedom.

As I stepped into the cool night air, I knew I was clear. I walked farther, putting distance between myself and the hotel. Relief washed over me like surf on a beach.

But it didn’t last long. In spite of the success, I had a much bigger problem. I had put myself in a highly compromising position because of fear. Because of a terror I had allowed to control me. And that was not okay.

Paralyzing fear was a major liability for a thief. And it wasn’t particularly compatible with a life of crime.

I’d become spooked. I’d heard other thieves talk about this. But I’d never imagined it would happen to me.

So what was I going to do? I could barely execute the most straightforward of jobs. How would I fare doing something more complicated? And dangerous?

I kept walking, past glowing shop windows and banks with their locked-down entrances. A cab honked somewhere behind me, and a crosswalk sign uttered its chipper bleep.

No need to overreact, Cat. Surely it was just a passing phase. Maybe I just needed a little time. A short break.

I nodded. Fine. That was what I’d do. I would talk to my handler, Templeton, and tell him I needed a brief hiatus—some time to rest and clear my head. No heists, no jobs for a short while. A few weeks should do it. Enjoy a nice, easy life for a bit, specifically with no life-threatening scenarios. I’d be ready to come back to work after that.

I stood at a corner, waiting for the crosswalk light to turn. A cool breeze kicked up; it smelled of rain. A storm was coming.

And then someone gripped my upper left arm with a hold as tight as a pit bull’s jaws. Someone else grabbed my right. The hands belonged to two men the approximate size of Kodiak bears.

“Cat Montgomery,” the one on my right said in my ear, his voice low and threatening. “We need you to come with us.”

Panic flooded over me, and alarm bells clanged in my ears. Had I been less distracted, I might have been quicker with an evasive maneuver. But it was too late for that—these men had grips of iron. There was nowhere for me to go.

As they marched me quickly down a side street, I clenched my teeth, mostly with anger at myself for not being on my guard immediately after a job. I looked sideways at them. These guys did not look like cops. Were not acting like cops.

I needed to get out of here. I didn’t know who these men were, and I didn’t want to know.

Then, before I could do anything, a black Lexus limousine pulled up to the curb.

This might be my only chance to get away. The one thing I had to my advantage was that people usually underestimated me. Especially men. Especially steroid monster-type men. I began to execute a Krav Maga escape maneuver to break free—and found my move immediately anticipated, eliciting a counter-maneuver from the man on my left.

I barely had a second to register shock at this as the door to the Lexus flung open and I was roughly stuffed into the backseat.

This was bad.

I struggled upright. A man sat opposite me, and the two thugs lowered themselves in on either side of me. My every nerve screamed at the entrapment, but I stayed quiet, rapidly making calculations and observations. The interior was lined with buff-colored leather, and there was a lit crystal bar at one end. The air smelled of cigars and single malt.

The limo began to move, gliding quietly away from the curb. I quickly glanced out the window; to stay oriented, I needed to keep track of the direction we were headed in.

I turned my attention to the barrel-chested man sitting opposite me. He looked to be in his late sixties. His watch, a Patek Philippe, was worth more than my condo. He watched me coldly from behind gold-rimmed glasses. The downturned, taut set of his mouth betrayed a misanthropic son of a bitch.

I looked closer at his face, and recognition clicked.

Icy cold water poured down my spine. I was in trouble. Very big trouble.

Albert Faulkner III had been the victim two years ago of a high-profile theft: the Caesar Diamond. The jewel was a sixty-four-carat, cognac-colored stone, one of the largest in private ownership. It had been ripped from the famous Kimberley mine in South Africa in 1982, cut into a cushion shape, and sold at auction for six hundred thousand dollars. It was considered a deal at the time—brown diamonds were not as fashionable then as they are now. In today’s market, its value would be much more than that. The Caesar had been the pride of Faulkner’s substantial collection.

Until two years ago, that is, when it was stolen from his private safe in Palm Springs, California. The perpetrator was never caught.

Faulkner had been quite public about the fact that if he ever caught the thief, he would have his revenge. His threats were highly unpleasant but rather creative, with a . . . shall we say, medieval flavor. Fortunately, he never discovered the identity of the bandit.

Until now, it would seem.

I tried to still my nerves, to not show visible shaking, as he leveled his viper gaze at me.

“Miss Catherine Montgomery. We have some business to attend to, you and I.”

“Oh?”

“I believe you took something of mine.”

My stomach curdled. I needed a way out of this vehicle. “What do you mean?” I decided to stall. Stalling was always a safe tactic.

Faulkner gave an infinitesimal nod. In a heartbeat, the thug on my left grabbed me by my throat and gripped firmly. Panic bounced inside my skull as crushing pain seared into my throat from his grip. I raked at his hand. I couldn’t move it.

“Miss Montgomery, perhaps you don’t realize this, but I do have other business to attend to besides yours. So cut the shit,” Faulkner hissed.

“Okay,” I choked out.

The thug released me. I breathed hungrily and rubbed my bruised throat.

Memo to self:


I realized the only way to get out of this car alive was to play along, play nice. My next move was straight-up honesty.

“You’re talking about the Caesar Diamond,” I said.

“Very good, Catherine. Now we’re going to get somewhere.”

“It was nothing personal. It was just my assignment.” I tried to strike an innocent lamb expression. This also happened to be the truth. I worked for an organization—AB&T, the Agency of Burglary & Theft—as one of their roster of professional thieves. They assigned us heists whenever they were hired by an outside client in need of a job done. Much like an advertising agency, but with a little less pinstriping.

“Oh, yes. I’m sure it was just your assignment,” Faulkner said. “Nonetheless, you were the one responsible. And you cost me dearly.”

I frowned for a minute, thinking. “But didn’t your insurance cover the theft?” The idea that I’d done a job that violated one of my rules made me very uncomfortable.

You see, I have three policies, my Thief’s Credo.

Never steal from anyone who would go hungry.

Never steal anything that’s not insured.

Never steal frivolously.

Stealing was my job. But I decided long ago that this didn’t give me a license for bad behavior in the rest of my life.

Faulkner looked at me with impatience. “Yes, of course my insurance covered it. That’s not the point. I lost something special. Something no amount of money can replace. And now I want it back.”

I studied Faulkner carefully. There was something heartfelt in what he was saying. Two years ago, when I’d been casing his home and planning the Caesar theft, I did some background research. I had encountered stories about Albert Faulkner III. His family had been wealthy and powerful before the stock market crash in 1929. But that was fifteen years before Faulkner was born. He had grown up the hungry youngest child in a house full of kids who remembered what life was like before, and with a father embittered by the loss of wealth, status, everything. They had been raised to fight for everything they had lost, taught to claw and battle back to the top, trained to possess and hold on to every scrap that was their own.

I sat silently, not sure what he wanted me to say at this point. I actually sympathized with his plight. But did he really expect me to hunt down the Caesar and steal it back for him?

I didn’t have to come up with any sort of response, however, because he kept talking. “Trouble is,” he said, “I’ve had my people look into it. And here’s the t