Page 76 of Brazen Mistakes

The door to the SUV swings open, and Jansen leaps in, shuddering a bit from the cold. Piecing together a believable running outfit for him from what the rest of us were wearing was a bit of a comedy, but he looks mostly like a runner, albeit one that should probably be out when it’s twenty degrees warmer than it is today. “What’d you find?” I ask as he holds his hands in front of the register.

I crank up the heat for him.

“Holy moly, it’s cold.” He pulls his coat on from where he left it to go run, the knee-length gray puffer that covers him for all his winter wandering not suitable for the guise of a runner. “The usual setup, nothing too crazy. I saw a likely junction box at the back of the house. There are a few cameras, though.”

“Sneakable?”

“Possible. But I think distraction might be better.”

“It’s the back of the house, though.”

“Yeah.”

I watch as a family loads up a minivan in the front yard across from the target’s house, disgruntled teens hauling backpacks and shoving them into the car. What looks tobe grandparents hustle after everyone, dragging teens and adults into hugs indiscriminately. “What do we have to work with?” I ask.

Jansen hops into the back of the car, pulling a few bags from the back end. “Well, Walker took his notebook, but I have a few miscellaneous art supplies here. Trips didn’t bring anything, but there’s a road emergency kit in the back and some bungee cords. I have, umm, some granola bars, a set of bump keys, my multi-tool, a stress ball, and a copy of Foucault that I forgot to take out. And I assume you know what you have in your bag.”

“My tablet, a bug detector, and three of my devices, as well as my multi-tool,” I say as I watch one teen loading the car shout something at his brother. That’s all the warning before he chucks a football at the other guy’s head. The victim ducks, and the football whizzes into the street, the assailant laughing hysterically as their parents turn around and start yelling.

“Want to be an extra grandson?” I ask, pointing at the blond teens as the kid who threw the ball gets scolded by his father, leaving the other kid to sprint into the street and retrieve the ball.

“Am I stealing their football?”

“Nah. But you might lose your stress ball in the mark’s backyard. It probably won’t be the first time those kids have caused some chaos across the street.”

Jansen pockets the ball. “It’s as good a plan as any. Wish we had our earpieces, though.”

“Yeah, well, this was a bit impromptu. I guess Trips didn’t want to spend his trust fund on jewels, only on clothes.”

Jansen huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, and tuition, but not the rental properties. I never know where his line is with his blood money, you know?”

“Cautious with a side of petty. But you’d better get going. They’ll be pulling out soon.”

I hand him the device that lets me cut into a standard home security system when placed on the right line. Jansen doesn’t need any further guidance. As long as it’s a typical system, it’ll be the same as every other time we’ve done this.

“Thank God for a good Midwest goodbye,” he says, before hopping out of the car and walking past the family, still loitering in the front yard.

They’re caught up in their own situation and pay no notice as Jansen pops up his hood before scrambling over the gate across the street with significantly less grace than usual. It’s damn good acting on Jansen’s part, and I’m impressed by his forethought.

Less than a minute later, a silver-haired man in an unbuttoned wool coat and slippers stumbles down the front stairs and trails Jansen around the side of the house. I roll down all the windows, straining to hear anything, but I’m too far away, and the family’s continued bickering blocks anything I could hear, anyway.

Instead, I count seconds, figuring anything past 120 means Jansen’s in trouble. At ninety-eight seconds, while I’m trying to jam my big feet into Jansen’s smaller boots for a rescue, I see the front gate slowly creep open. Jansen strolls through, waving the yellow ball around while the old guy looks ready to prove he conceals and carries. But he’s letting Jansen go, so the simple story must have workedwell enough.

Jansen waves bye to the guy, who glares as the gate separates him from my sunshiny roommate. Jansen trots across the street, and I’m barely able to hear him ask the teens if either of them lost the ball. Immediately, the dad chews out the troublemaker, who’s trying to defend himself. The other kid chuckles at his brother’s expense, while the grandparents try to smooth everything over.

Once the old guy across the street goes inside, I text Jansen, and he tosses the ball to the teen in need of revenge, holding up his phone as an excuse to step away—always a good move, as both parties will believe it—and walks back with his phone to his ear.

He slips into the car, and I immediately pull away, rolling up the windows as we go. You can’t catch someone you can’t find.

“How’d it go?” I ask.

“It was close, but I got it.”

“Nice. How are you feeling? Buzzed? Chill?”

I glance over when he doesn’t answer right away. His lips are twisted as he flops down his hood and combs his fingers through his hair. “Nah. I honestly don’t feel much of anything.”

We drive a little longer before I figure out what I’m trying to say. “That’s not normal for you, is it?”

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