Page 95 of Brazen Criminals

None of them are touching me, and I’m torn—I think if one of them reached out right now, I’d lose my confidence. I’d second-guess myself. But I miss the unspoken support of their quiet caresses.

“Okay, does that all make sense?” I ask, passing my list around the group.

RJ says nothing but snatches up his computer and disappears upstairs, presumably to get to better equipment. Not that I have any idea what he has stashed in his room. Walker gives my hand a quick squeeze and follows RJ up the stairs.

Jansen flops down on Trips’ chair, and I catch myself before I gasp at his audacity. Trips isn’t here. The hollowness in my chest grows.

“RJ?” Jansen yells at the retreating backs of the other two, “Do you think you can get a floor plan of the precinct? Figure out which room they’d keep old records in?”

“On it,” he calls back.

Jansen takes the notebook out of my hand. “You got this down in your head?”

I nod. He swipes his hand across the page, my carefully formed letters smeared beyond recognition. Then he snatches the charcoal and doodles on the cover over the smears, adding hearts and penises across the page.

“Really?” I ask.

Jansen tosses me a wink. “We don’t want cops to take a second glance. Last thing we need is a list of all the laws we’re going to break.”

“Shit,” I mutter. I really should have thought of that.

“No worries. I’ve got you.” Jansen finishes his “art” then swipes his hand across it once, smearing the charcoal again. It now looks like Walker was pranked and he tried to wipe it off and gave up.

Jansen sets down the sketchbook and moseys toward the kitchen. I follow him, knowing I have to wait, hating the inaction. I should call Trips’ dad, but I need more information. I’ve got to have the upper hand so I can make the best trade possible to get Trips out.

Jansen washes his hands, then hops up onto the counter, sitting cross-legged in the middle. “Okay, Miss Clara, I need you to tell me everything you can remember about the precinct behind the locked doors.”

“Me? Isn’t RJ getting you floor plans?”

Jansen pulls his hair back into a high bobble, his green eyes clear and focused. “The floor plans just tell you about the floor. I need to know about desks, doors, glass walls, chairs, small rooms that weren’t on the original plans but added later. I need to know how busy it is, what kind of lights they use, if there are any dark corners. Did you see any cameras? If so, where?” Jansen taps my nose, and I jump. “You’re the closest thing we have to an inside man, Clara. I need your big brain to help me find a way in and out without getting arrested.”

And with that, we get to planning.

Chapter 46

Jansen

Claraisbrilliant.Well,I knew she was smart—Trips wouldn’t keep picking fights with her if he didn’t think she could fight back. But her plan to get me in and out, it’s just real enough to work.

The prescription bottle was the toughest part, but Walker donated and altered one of his, and now I am the proud delivery boy of one Archibald Clarence Westerhouse the Second, ordered to bring his son his medicine and do a wellness check.

This is going to be the hardest part. We’re timing my entrance to match the shift change, and I’m hopeful it will be busy enough that I won’t be stopped. It is a Saturday night, and there’s a Gopher’s game, so I imagine the police station will be hopping, but I really don’t know.

I’ve stolen a bunch of stuff—so much stuff—but I’ve never had to have a conversation with a mark before. I’ve either stolen things when no one was looking, like cars, or lifted wallets, where the most I have to say is “Oh! Sorry!” as I tuck the mark’s money into my pocket. I love the buzz of no one seeing me, of no one remembering me. The idea of being invisible while in plain sight, of taking what I want and no one even noticing it’s gone until I’ve escaped their memory, that’s the buzz I live for, the only real tool I have to burn off all the extra energy I have vibrating inside me.

This is going to be different. A new buzz builds as I walk into the lobby, my hair pulled into a low ponytail, my green dress shirt pressed and tucked into nice slacks. I feel like a low-level office jockey. As that’s who I’m pretending to be, I guess it makes sense.

The lobby is just as busy as we’d hoped. Cops are joking as they hand off cases, the waiting room full of people trying to bail out drunk friends and family. I march up to the front desk, a manila envelope in one hand.

“Yes?” The front desk clerk is tucking a pack of gum into her purse, obviously getting ready to head out. Her name plate says Carol, and I have a good feeling that this just might work.

“I have some prescription medication for someone in lockup.”

She holds out her hand. “Name? I can get it to the officer handling the case.”

I take a deep breath, putting on my best smile. Now, I’m shit at blackmail—my smile does not communicate “deadly serious” in any meaningful way. What it does do, however, is make nearly any woman over thirty giddy, happy to help me. I must look like the charming version of their firstborn or something. It’s ridiculous, but it’s been true for the last five or so years, so I’ll use it when I can.

I flash my smile at her, trying to look apologetic. “Oh gosh, I don’t know if I can do that? It’s seizure meds, you know? And my boss said I had to make sure his son got them. Like, I had to watch the kid take them.” I pull on my ear, looking sheepishly at the floor. “I don’t think I can go back to the office without doing what he says. I really need this job.”

---