Page 112 of The Picasso Heist

Technically, yes. Realistically, no. The Jeep’s engine—no, the entire Jeep was screaming its age, every rusted bolt and lug nut rattling in unison.

Skip didn’t answer Joyce’s question. He didn’t have to. “Look, they’re getting off the highway,” he said, pointing.

So were a lot of other cars, but at least Skip could make up some lost ground. Instead of a distant dot, the Escalade was close enough that there was no losing it through the crosstown traffic.

“Where the hell are they taking her?” asked Joyce.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” said Skip. “And if I’m right, this has Nikolov’s fingerprints all over it.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s his own little depreciation write-off. Only not so little. He owns a couple of abandoned warehouses a few blocks from here.”

“How do you know that?”

“I do my homework.”

Skip watched Joyce in the rearview mirror as she processed everything. She made a weird face when she was deep in thought, as if she’d just eaten something from the fridge that might or might not have been past its expiration date.

“Forget calling Nikolov,” she said, putting his phone back and reaching for her own. “What we need is backup.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“Why?”

“Because whatever this is, it’s about to go down.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts. This is what I need you to do,” said Skip. Up ahead, the Escalade made another turn. The warehouses were in sight, only a block away. “The second I get out of the car, you start recording on your phone. Do you understand? Whatever happens, keep recording.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“You’ll see. Justkeeprecording.”

“Then what?”

“Then we all live happily ever after.”

“You better be right.”

“I will be,” he said. “But in case I’m not, what will you be doing?”

She didn’t answer. He glanced at her over his shoulder, and his eyes made clear that this wasn’t a rhetorical question.

“Okay, I got it. I’ll be recording,” she said.

“And then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if things go sideways,” he said, “if that happens, make sure you record it and then get the hell out of here.”

Joyce was processing again, and this time, judging from the look on her face, the milk in the fridge had definitely gone bad. The idea of things going sideways was sending her into a panicked tailspin.

“Shit,” she said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he said.